[1] Nor is that true - love as then understood was some kind of an over reaching need, strong enough to be demanded by punching a raised fist

• that common emblem of revolutions - on a stone wall.

[2] We succumbed and the beauty that resulted was transient - the indentations on a narrow bed where we laid ourselves down next to each other, willing like believers that such an act will be our salvation.

The days it rains here
Water flooding the streets
Swirling with mud and branches
In the creeks.
I begin to travel to

That crude shack, those do it
Yourself benched nailed together from
Discarded boards, snub glasses,
Scratched and soiled, filled to the brim
With steaming milky tea,
Our unshaven faces, our hair wet
And slicked back like gangsters
Strong cigarette smoke from
Your finger tips, you hands
Slashing the air, in order to make
Me see the other dimensions,
The fourth very least.
Brother, why have you
Given up on me?
I now see
This hidden dimension
Of yours.
It is the track on which
Pain rides memory’s trains
On days it rains.

I walk into town, To take in stores, offices, dives, My heart-shirt torn, grinning.