a gamble spins in a dial,
a marble thrown in a clock,
a barbed-wire doll-
house remains abandoned. menageries
of light and dust drip to pools
burgeoned from anonymous
offerings, gathered in a room -
congregation of all nothing
new days, new lovers,
i do not consider this crumpling
page in my left hand, deposited
by the news, dropped beside empty
cigarette boxes, discarded.
perhaps dismantled possibilities
scrawled on used napkins,
editorials no one read that day,
obituaries no one read that day,
pass like great ruins in the wind,
papers and poetry punish their decay -
a pilgrimage to walls, high fences,
and corners they can rest in
all the places I have seen,
of all the people
I have been,
only strangers,
only wasteland.
perhaps the marble rolls
and slows at the edge,
the snake twists in place
and earth spins beneath her,
and we go where the words
go, perhaps . . .
just a rest in music,
just one note,
one beat, before the plummet,
when i die, the band blares, beginning.