Cut off the ears of winter

    they have overheard too much，

    where incinerators burn，

    where rubble-strewn streets

    are covered in dust from the remodeling.

    Again， the doe-man in mauve cashmere-

    the nerve of him-in the never world

    （where ashes are harvested） where

    ashes rain down in glory， a jackpot

    of answers. Tonight， the underwriting

    of desire is an inky carbon copy.

    I have already-that last time drunk

    on scotch¹. Then all morning

    a chain gang of transvestite prostitutes

    litters the front yard-the Police Station

    next door also on fire， burning，

    burning handcuffs， the soles of shoes

    not holding the earth， cars skidding²

    everywhere， the tire's frame sets sparks

    along the road. This is my last dollar，

    last cigarette， last match.