Today, the same old things- the new scars, br Ringless fingers, br And the way the clouds tended to move like br Somnulent cars br Across the nettled draperies; br Then didn’t I think of you; yes, the eerie br Aphorism of spilt milk- the drizzle of the snow br Plow your baby missed- br That was what you misquoted at the end of br The article, br And the sand lions sleep not so very deeply br In the silt, br Like Spanish glassed mothers in their patio, br Staring forlornly at the apathetic death from the br Eyes of the alligator down the mowed br Green- the very same one who ate Sancho br Panzo while hypnotized by a windmill: br And that is how you should have ended it, br Whistling like a Clint Eastwood movie since I’ve br Lost all that I’ve loved, or never loved, br Except for my dogs- and we go long-tongued anyways br Looking for the sweet spots where you might br Be lying carelessly disengaged in the slow-motion br Traffic jam of sky.