O how I have seen a great deal of men,
Living the many lives of countless oracles
Watching the cracks of their crystal balls
Glowing in convalescence to the likes of me.
And they have been mean,
Wrestlers in the black sand of ancient towns,
And I have always seemed to lose every tussle with them,
Every regretful tussle and more.
Living as a parasite with all the names they force-fed me
Was even less than harvesting spoiled clovers,
And it is strange to remember and compensate
Those lives which were not mine at the onset.
And it cascades, the sadness;
O it really does,
Like a waterfall bending and breaking toward its end.
It must have been my desperateness, I fear,
The desperateness to be taken away
And make love to them
On islands of the south, listening to pale skies
And its unfaltering nature-those clean I love you's.
