I cherish what lies I have left.
The droning acoustics of wind
In the canyon like a long throat
That suffers catarrh, the deer
Staring back at me from soft brush
That blurs the distance between us,
And the procession of hurling
Motor cars commuting through this
Sunset growing later and later
In the rigidly humanized day. . .
All of these things will bother me
If I live to read this slaughtered memory
Of a time when I, too, sat on the edge
Of the bed at six every morning,
Mumbling dreams like a mouthful
Of cold oatmeal, color of winter landscapes.