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MORPHINE What hasn’t happened isn’t everything Until in middle age it starts to be. Night-blooming jasmine, dreams—and when they bring You out on stage there’s silence. Now I see, You tell the darkness which is watching you. Applause. Then instantly a hush, a cough. It was another darkness once you knew You had a blindfold on. You took it off, But this is darker—down an unlit street, An unmarked street, the three blocks to the shore. They call it Banyan Street, night air so sweet. Too much increasingly turns into more— This is the martyr’s grove on Banyan Street. You breathe a perfumed darkness, numberless Perfumes. The glistening as wet as meat Deliciousness of sinking in. The S OS of it. But it’s too late. You reach The can’t stop trembling yes oh yes of it— Already when you’re two blocks from the beach You start to drown. Love ruled your White House. Sit, You named your dog. Come, Sit; sit, Sit; was love. Your head explodes although you hear a shot. Then archaeology … below above— Beneath amnesia, Troy. But you forgot. — location: 6068 ^ref-46126