Dear Reader,

What a fucked-up night
it was to be at the fair,
walking the Mayor’s dog
with six extra legs through

the muck: that’s how I feel
now when opportunity knocks
and I go falling down the stairs,
halfway into the impenatrable.

Yes, indubitably, it’s a problem
I have: lost years, periods
of silence full of rocks,

aging like old bread crust
to be carried off through
some hole by Mickey Mouse

and after three days
into Cinderella’s story.