and at noon I will fall in love

    and nothing will have meaning

    except for the brownness of

    the sky， and tradition， and water

    and in the water off the railway

    in New Haven¹ all the lights

    go on across the sun， and for

    millennia² those who kiss fall into

    hospitals， riding trains， wearing

    black shoes， pursued³ by those

    they love， the Chinese in the armies

    with the shiny sound of Johnny Cash，

    and in my plan to be myself

    I became someone else with

    soft lips and a secret life，

    and I left， from an airport，

    in tradition of the water

    on the plains， until the train

    started moving and yesterday

    it seemed true that suddenly

    inside of the newspaper

    there was a powerline and

    my heart stopped， and everything

    leaned down from the sky to kill me

    and now the cattails sing.