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 Haven all the lights

    go on across the sun， and for

    millennia those who kiss fall into

    hospitals， riding trains， wearing

    black shoes， pursued 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.