His longing, strung on the American night, knew its own slavage.
Debt-peon to such lean solitudes. Drink with me, please.
Precious friend, you cannibal of elders, your maimed
shoes, lager-lame step, made a hundred-storied ledge
of any sidewalk: hesitation-cut cracks. Forgive me this
going. I always miss you. You thought your uncombed
thoughts and spoke them, penned dense letters so
manically amped and you still must, I guess,
for others somewhere. We two in the post-party
dark as MacGowran does Malone Dies, and the lines
of stereo lights are a landing field below, blinking red
in fog. How your mind then seemed a soaring lamp.
Tell me something important, you said (drunk, dead
drunk again), and I was stumped. Friend, I still am.