We are about to move away from guys getting messy at their headquarters two tables down. The you is gone, the bar vacuum is on, the TV turned high, casting a sunset on the opposite wall. In the intelligent Taos Inn, a copy of the historic Ansel Adams photo, @3Moonrise@1, @3Hernandez, New Mexico@1, hangs. Like, dehydration city, like, work, like the spirit ants aren't going to move out of the bowel of the valley, the ski resort. If I go home I can sidle up to my bed and arrange it so I slice the moon on my pillow for the official margarita of the lost white brother, hailed by prophecy. Lorca died this same age, 38. Some people's parents are still alive, and there will be that to deal with; and I have approached this close like a date, like a feeling. Don't think you're alone in needing to be alone. Whether it's his last egg Mandelstam offers Akhmatova upon her return, or my beer, my refrigerator open to you, & you've seen my picture, you know with whom you're dealing, we are the same lost white other, obligated to hold the sun up in this culture until it rests on the opposite wall like last night, my love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JACOBITE'S TOAST (TO AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY) by JOHN BYROM IN A COPY OF OMAR KHAYYAM by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE ACHARNIANS: A PLEA FOR THE ENEMY by ARISTOPHANES PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 63. AL-HAIY by EDWIN ARNOLD SONNET: 1 by GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT THE CANAL by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN TO NIMUE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |