i know it's safe (in this walled city cobbled
out of many a forced metaphor)
to plagiarize my twenty-one-year-old heart
because no one's going to read it
with it's broken promises, vagrant enthusiasms,
befuddling hints, and obliterated faith.
it's an ancient kingdom
whose once-known lines
i'm tracing
in the dark;
mostly history
whose possible future
has not yet been revealed.

in the first fold of morning light
my heart is setting out
like a haggard gypsy caravan, wandering back
to that old copse of trust-filled beginnings,

inching toward an immeasurable darkness,
every year like a door left cracked open,
or a faucet dripping through the night,
or a three-corned tear in silk lingerie. . .

a fully cataloged museum of circumspection
and amputation. (for instance, 'there is always
a moment or two in the course of a theft
when you forget you're stealing something
and on top of that, you can't really stand
all this stealing going on.')

whoever runs off with something ought to
at least take care of it--
(rains, hearts, shameless vows, words
waiting for me to force them
into another bad poem

shaped by a pathetic dream)