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strange, accepting the convention

      We live for but never mention:

      You are not free to acknowledge

      These terms such is our agreement

      Then we understand each other

      You got it. Then slowly walk out

      The room and out in the gathering

      Street. The gold flood of the gut-

      Ters sunlight and motor oil

      Thinking that what our beauty

      Finds in the street’s disorder

      Can return in the quiet hotel

      The conventional neon light making it Spain

      Anything else we wd want to believe

      Shoddy sense of improvement and

      An immaculate joy. Standards

      Concerning the function of beauty

      And all the love-light shining

      In the eyes of a deceased photo

      The gone Election Day signs;

      Simply to anticipate feelings you had

      Already included in your sighs

      She offers me the terrain

      Of her heart in bondage

      I enter and provide its wage

      When I sat down at this table

      A prophet and now to finish

      This ravishing book and have it

      Bound in expensive white paper

      Filled with the conventional words

      Bringing a little strain

      Her breath and mine play tag

      In lush, bitter arbors

      Our wasted hammocks sag

      Gladiolas filled with tears

      Wrung from the scattered burden

      Of trees burnished with rage, our rage

      Autumn embroidery in a raw cage

      Containing joy, leaking disdain

      Holes full of sky in the trees

      Her lover crosses his red knees.

      Embarrassing. That’s right

      She offers me you offer me a jeweled

      Motorcade to trust my heart to

      But I am not interested. The one

      To whom this heart belongs is she

      Who hears it singing everywhere

      Conventional as honesty in love is.

      Discarding daylight’s forgery of

      Manners, midnights’s emerald stair

      Then we understand each other

      Except the Africa of her mouth

SONG

      You asked me to sing

      Then you seemed not

      To hear; to have gone out

      From the edge of my voice

      And I was singing

      There I was singing

      In a heathen voice

      You could not hear

      Though you requested

      The song—it was for them.

      Although they refuse you

      And the song I made for you

      Tangled in their tongue

      They wd mire themselves in the spring

      Rains, as I sit here folding and

      Unfolding my nose in your gardens

      I wouldn’t mind it so bad

      Each word is cheapened

      In the air, sounding like

      Language that riots and

      Screams in the dark city

      Thoughts they requested

      Concepts that rule them

      Since I can’t have you

      I will steal what you have

      Dracula

DRACULA

      Crosses his blond eyes to think of you

      Picks up his brown overnight bag and

      Runs down the ash covered streets to the station

      Scuffles with the ignorant ticket agent

      Leaps on the bus as it belches forward

      Passengers seeping into the dark

      The city is obliged to be dark

      And mysteriously desolate under

      Ritualized demands of departure

      The foolish moon of your care and

      Coins filtering through his sheer pockets

      A shroud with pockets cape

      His personal state of permanent transit

      Covered with decals where he ever mailed

      His possessions This is serious business.

      A brand new black greatcoat neatly folded

      Over his naked arm the dance of human fluid

      “Blood” in more polite times. The tattoo

      Remarkable and genteel,

      Pictures of mountains

      And soft undistinguished

      Rivers in his hand Across his dry palm

      bus ticket dup-

      lication designs

      The awkward sneer impinging on his nez

      This particular

      Place

      Dracula depicted in venetian half- light

      dissolving boundaries of his presence:

      Dracula your white faces

      against the night

      Hair falling back

       over your faces

      formula STORY

      Personal history to that man was particular

      Actual form and the descriptive logic of it

      The word he thought it was

      Was death, was the stiffened sense

      O the garments only a sob story

      That we could say here was a person

      And the person a loss to himself

      How strange how strange. The bed-

      Room

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