The Tourist

Boys in shorts
    will be the death of me.
        Here and always Sunday,

I cannot help if I rise of God—
    or act a parliament to
 their secretaryship.

Boys in farm life, etc.,
    and of the gravemaker down Grand.
      I have left business

up to the dead—the dead without
    their businesses, their deaths of them, their boys
for example, or lives.

Oh, why not make us this
        nothing we have for us
    a hell to come to?

This is where a love is starting: you.
I think that we should be tequila
        and let heaven be

the pity we've made.
        You buy the white horse
just to sell it back. Pale cigarettes and sanctuary.

       Tuft of fur at your throat,
        tuft at your belly
below where each breath that you swallow goes.