Vespers

The towels rot and disgust me on this damp peninsula where they invented mist and drug abuse and taught the light to fade, where my top-quality and rock-bottom heart cried because I'll never get to kiss your famous knees again in a room made vague by throwing a scarf over a lamp. Things get pretty radical in the dark: the sailboats on the inlet sail away; the provinces of actuality crawl on the sea; the dusk now tenderly ministers to the fallen parking lots— the sunset instananeous on the fenders, memory and peace . . . the grip of chaos . . .