Balboa, the Entertainer

It cannot come

except you make it

from materials

it is not

caught from. (The philosophers

of need, of which

I am lately

one,

will tell you. ``The People,''

(and not think themselves

liable

to the same

trembling flesh). I say now, ``The People,

as some lesson repeated, now,

the lights are off, to myself,

as a lover, or at the cold wind.

Let my poems be a graph

of me. (And they keep

to the line where flesh

drops off. You will go

blank at the middle. A

dead man.

	But

die soon, Love. If

what you have for

yourself, does not

stretch to your body's

end.

(Where, without

preface,

music trails, or your fingers

slip

from my arm