farewell, old black settee your leather had become tired, brought to ribbon corners by determined claws. we pushed you over, and turned away from your dusty belly.
the principal of one lost shoe i have lost a good many things in my time: a key, money, good friends, a brown leather jacket, more money, poems on scraps of paper like this one,
heart attack Friday something about the nearness of the weekend, moves the hearts of a certain kind of man to frenzied beating, squeezed in the grip of the fading glow of the week:
without you catch her voice, whispering why within wild waves. your tie still worn black a year gone. each cigarette is seven minutes of forgetting, (or not remembering)