camp chair, suppertime, when everyone’s head
inside, sexy dusk fingers
cradling the cul-de-sac, who’s left
looking from the roof?

who, who to take vigil
over the blank course of the street
the grass, the sprinklers coming on­­—shock
like a wet tit loosed from its cup?

who but me, lars?

slowly, strangely, the day lights itself
a cig, pulls in smoke. already again
i find myself stretching awake. well lars
here we are.

thus with the morning
turn endless the years
everything same in its
nowness. newness. so?

i’m going out to skate, aloner.