Penelope took my bones, washed
them in the clear stream of patina lyrics.
This world is no longer the same loving
heap of dusk. It is full of man-made
fireflies and lost cowbells. I see myself
ever so far from the children—with
no one clawing at my clawing thighs,
aged by the legends of the sun:
Love is a nine-life gigolo who
walks aloof and priggish.