With unsteady pace it begins in sweats and

With unsteady pace it begins in sweats and
contracts of words in hewn times and little paces
it is morning and Poe is awake
and dizzy inviting-swollen birdless
sleep   he is alone and his neck
is uneasy - muscle by muscle - when I chaught the door too long
its hinges peeled in such wooden tear -
to the ends of nail marrow -
and there can be no stars in this morning
of prayer outside the green
great tree holds Poe and his
time in millennia - and froths
miniscule life with invisible
branches labeled life and
love, (I felt the love but now I only have one memory) the rough
tatterings to the sky while the
little life lives on - building monuments and
even more promises while
Two Snakes, the lover and the dead, search for matches in
the tall grass or tiny beating hearts of nuclear triggers that is
Poe's tree and he twisted
slightly and felt hungry in
his fingers, hips unwound but winding and
it is morning but he does not sleep up
for hours and minutes in
his kitchen, played cards by himself
rak-rak-rak the shuffling impressed on empty kitchen-space
to urge any sorts of magic
or portent went on a walk to a closed cafe past the tree
but still inside it where the
battle bent with fervor on the street,
nearly deserted, the slain and
shorn sprinting arm in arm with muscular
calves to the log iron bar for vodka
and conversation with pretty
waitresses in short skirts hallucinations that Poe's tree was a
rose tomorrow they
will be whole again and back on again he stood outside the closed cafe
for nearly a minute, and then back
home, smelled
every puddle down the street
though he resisted
and felt the gaze of two drunk
women on the streetcorner disheveling old faces and baby eyes -
laurel tiaraed - steadying themselves against another one and his
pockets were empty save the crisply worn
note in his back pocket,
graph paper and black ink Meet Me
By The Cafe and We Forever Drink and Laugh for Union
and again so young           Your Strong Hands
(The way I feel) she sat in the third room of the apartment not listening
thirsting and unrested / hideous lips when
she cried though
the windows beautifully repelling tired words, beautiful at that
closeness, such eyes this morning! and golden hair, Poe, golden -
here she reads novels in the tattered bulb light
burned her skin with faminous
little razorettes and forks she lit in
the over had just awoken when Poe lay down - to write
him a  letter and talk quite naturally on the telephone