A Sixth Sense for disaster.
I think you feel as bad as me,
Maybe.
I think I could
Make you hate the
Soft buttery echoes of
God knows whose woman.
You and I could really
Destroy something
That was worth wrecking.
We could even send
All the plastic smiles,
And the condescending old men
With bushy brows and pearly teeth,
And the middle aged Women with
Their shiny foreheads
Spinning into oblivion.
I think
I think we could push and pull
And lay taut against every
Miserable vision we’ve ever seen.
And for you, for you, I think
I could evaporate into the
Loveliest mist—echoing of rebel
Soldiers, and longing, and love
If you promised that we could
Change one mind
And then fade away.