We wanted something: a nude instance
of gaga, a tern in a sunken hammock,
anecdotes that end with angry pigeons,
pinochle won. Should think profound—

profound was the wrong word. We won’t
get anything so don’t expect anything,
a babe in the mouth and knees sacked
dandling the natal muse, the hysterical

victim’s bouquet in Springtime. But we
wanted something more than a fire’s embrace
and a worker’s trance. We wanted one wail
that would benefit the whole adventure

or a last nickel to call home and thank ma.
Geography, now there’s a short street—
the buildings, the great outdoors (which remain
just that) flirtatious as blood-donors—

why, I don’t know—who sleep by the fountain
in the shade of the palm. They didn’t know
the first thing about fishing, which was their
lifelong ambition. Rivers, like churches full 
of bawdy ballads, the keen sloth greeted
by scrappy doves raving in the sky.
And fish, the furniture of fish, talked back.
Typos in a U-boat, we were all members
of Nature’s alphabet. But we wanted more.