Whatever I said I was,
was blown youth, delirious smoke in the woods
where the boy had been.
Wet-dark, chameleon’s dish, in the sheets
where the mouth had been,
the data into circuitry—her face her eyes “her spittle . . .
Life’s own fount to me.”
The data out: let me be your new and improved.
Where the words had been,
the seventeen-year-old atmosphere squeezed,
my mouth unhinged northwesterly,
the shine and steam of the carwash became me.
From the soap-scudded interior, I surfaced
and nothing was the matter, people scurried
with vacuums; my loneliness populated!
And it was good. It was progress (which I resented).
And I walked up and down upon my own skin.
And I never returned.
