A Life Of Crime

Frail friends, I love you all!

Maybe that's the trouble,

Storm in the eye of a storm.

Everyone wants too much.

Instead, we gratefully accept

Some stylized despair

Suitcoats left hanging

On folding chairs, snow falling

Inside a phonebooth, cows

Scouring some sad pasture.

You know the sort of landscape,

All sensibility and no trees.

Nothing but space, a little

Distance between friends.

As if loneliness didn't make us

Responsible, and want accomplices.

Better to drink at home

Then to fall down in bars.

Or to read all night a novel

With missing heirs, 513 pages

In ten-point type, and lay my body

Down, a snarl of urges

Orbited by blood,

Dreaming of others.