By cris cheek.
The ghosts, barricaded, with murderers
Come planned, like . . . cider under arrest
That clever dick refused to play by any drift
Agreed rules. Poised in the bugged costumes
Of gestalt the answerphone powdered
Personal destiny. It was all they couldn’t do
To hang on to the cheapest street . . gesture
And flay their neighbors raw, after the pot
Luck repartee subsided. Nobody took the guns
Back home. Nobody said . . philosophy was
Chummy. Nobody illuminated the mud harbor.
Wit and generosity were formally abandoned,
Behind the bike shed stench of rotting wood
Into which new year woodpeckers . . drilled.