Can you remember,
on our filmy sun days
how the forty-second street motor squirmed,
and you laughed about how we could never
be saviors on such grand railways?
When Mario Moreno died,
a giant bright flag
echoed his essence on me.
With such a fury that cannon blew,
and we understood where he was headed.
A cigarette yawned
where we left that ill-faithed rag,
the sullied organ rattling a sore throat
through that long, long opus.
and that sweet heaven
of sin and lustful valor,
where a tiny soul pounded
in a Christmas card you sent,
that reminisced
and told
a vivid howl
about a steelyard.