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 scotch. 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 skidding

    everywhere， the tire's frame sets sparks

    along the road. This is my last dollar，

    last cigarette， last match.