errol miller
THE LOVELY LONELY ONES
Like spore like candles on a shrouded deck
sleep comes to the passengers, sleep
comes to the Mojave desert, sleep comes
like many balloons for a white-haired wife
no gratification in the music, Sylvia
I too am in Mid-America waiting for nightfall
nothing can take its place, the perfume
of it is in my brain, in my ear
fat fish flap out a concerto of crazy love
an excited Astrologer at my elbow
too many roomers who came of course to stare
I have seen their winter coats of wheat
I have seen them going nowhere, stalled like drops
of splattered rain on dusty city streets
it is a severe storm on a sinking ship
if is a lighted candle flickering solitary
you know how it is to be alone and want someone
pretty faces, sunburned hands, a swaying noose
quiet as wedding diamonds on display, they
wrap themselves in mummy-clothes at midnight
they are the pretty ones, the favorite dead
the mushroom people who speak no more.
