Into the Great Wide Open
Stop the melancholy, warns
my cozy seat-mate, a vamp in black leotards,
armpits filled with scent, mouth
so like a cherry there is an invasion of
boy-senses withal toward her orchard.
She pats me with a lonesome hand,
holds me on her rugged lap,
and lets me read pages of her life
in which there are no lessons
stained with regret.
So home was strangled in the twigs and tendrils
of the map, and I flew over and across,
while she traced patterns and designs
devoid of awe and antique sentiment.
And I flew on and around and away,
contraband and perhaps posthumous,
yet newly violent with an approaching day
and a scenery mad with the arteries
of an impossible hope and love.