The fiancée of cinema left standing at the young doors.
She would like to cry and we would like her to cry.
Maybe soon she will cry.

When there is too much of it to know what to do
with all of this distaste,
when you have just escaped from a nap and the fog
of identity stings a little,
when the hollowness of the chambers accuses you
and the once easy recourse to the smoky and photogenic
has been disallowed,
there is still your breath, stronger,
and whole days devoid of the old you.