Tomorrow, since I have so few,
and Tomorrow, less dramatically,
and Tomorrow any number of times.
As for renouncing, isn’t that
the oldest?

Rooster crowing: dark blue velvet
that knows itself too well—
empty wallet, busted heart—
Oh yes, my very good friend,
a voice searching for orchids,
that dances alone.

And then for that one hour
there are no familiar faces:
this lovely, misbegotten animal
created from odd bits of refuse
from minute to minute
splits us down the middle.