What other shapes of guilt will we adopt today, what kind of confidence will we proclaim.
My mahogany memories are buried and won’t come out of every word, an elegy for this abstraction.
I’ll drain the rest of the dying vineyard instead of spraying the rotting lemons, the sycamores I
contemplate from nowhere nearby.
My eyes, like coins, do matter;
if I cease to outline days as done matter,
let this be an epithet for what hasn’t yet moved us to tears.