No more flights—
the climb up the steep

steps to your roost
I will

no more make.
Delirious, this.

A dizziness—
spell I'm under, looking

up, like a skirt—
am far from your fire

detector which sang
unceasing, whenever

you cooked. Smoke. Thin
I have grown

like your walls
—but no more

will I hear, no—
your neighbors' breakfast

of spite. Lady, it may
have even been hell,

but it was ours
& warm. I am down

in the furnace, or out
along the reefs—

I have carried lugged
to the top the kerosene

have lit the light-
house & left—

Tonight I wake with mud
in my head, a thick

brown I sink
my line into. Fists

full of fish.
Tonight even the storm

cannot calm me.

My hands tonight scatter
about the place, folded

quiet like fine lady's glove.
Cue the saddish music—

how like flies it rises!

Outside, the suicides
float by buoyant

in their lead balloons.