Closing now

This door, that window, this 

Chapter On Us, 

a short goodbye I wanted 

even shorter

before the long 

drive back. Thinking:

every poet’s written words 

on a lover. (“Lover” which implies some

undefined deep relationship,

sultry and sensitive,

cigarette smoke, explosion.)

Where did all the lovers go?

Did they flock to 

some Lover City? 

If I go to San Francisco, 

will I find them, waiting, 

pantsless with roses?

I thought there’d be 

some at university, but there 

are just men here—pantsless,

sure, but roses? Not in any way 

that counts. 

You can’t possibly do 

the kinds of things you do

to “Lovers” with men who

make a show of 

pissing in backyards. 

And they do coke here, 

but not how they do it

in Europe.

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