Between Hard Places
I thought I'd found a perfect darkness
where I could read in peace.
The night that brought the truth home
was revealed to be a false note
in some jokester's hoary melody
dragged out of the fire.
Down deserted streets it slept.
Folded newspapers excommunicated.
I accused a black hole of sucking
at my peril. It was a good day
for getting out of town.
The Swiss know what's up: the Alps,
Herr und Frau, out on a Sunday stroll
with their little foothills.
In America loom erections
like postage rate increases.
Only the post-coital
can save us now.
Dire endings keep me occupied,
but I have what I need:
a few shaggy arias, a steady outcome,
a weakness for a blonde in armor.