No Return
I like divorce. I love to compose
letters of resignation; now and then
I send one in and leave in a lemon–
hued Huff or a Snit with four on the floor.
Do you like the scent of a hollyhock?
To each his own. I love a burning bridge.
I like to watch the small boat go over
the falls—it swirls in a circle
like a dog coiling for sleep, and its frail bow
pokes blindly out over the falls’ lip
a little and a little more and then
too much, and then the boat’s nose dives and butt
flips up so that the boat points doomily
down and the screams of the soon-to-be-dead
last longer by echo than the screamers do.
Let’s go to the videotape, the news–
caster intones, and the control room does,
and the boat explodes again and again.
