Recalling The Last Encounter There is an anemic embrace on the street A kiss is thrown, meets another Drops to the sidewalk and goes for a tumble You warn of cark clouds that wriggle Like army worms: A form of algebra suicide, I guess I want to telephone the sailors Curse their songs of gasoline As the light in the booth turns me hideous I want to become hydraulic: Hit the newstands, national exposures Feel the world crawl into me through the fingers As the traffic outside locks, stops, goes soft I want to talk about milk About the invisible bones of the face About this brain that sits Too close to the skin While I hear you tell me We could be chainsaws under the stars Under what stars?