There they are again.  It's after dark.

    The rain begins its sober comedy，

    Slicking down their hair as they wait

    Under a pepper tree or eucalyptus，

    Larry Dietz， Luis Gonzalez， the Fitzgerald brothers，

    And Jarman， hidden from the cop car

    Sleeking innocently past.  Stoned，

    They giggle a little， with money ready

    To pay for more， waiting in the rain.

    They buy from the black Riviera

    That silently appears， as if risen，

    The apotheosis of wet asphalt

    And smeary-silvery glare

    And plush inner untouchability.

    A hand takes money and withdraws，

    Another extends a plastic sack——

    Short， too dramatic to be questioned.

    What they buy is light rolled in a wave.

    They send the money off in a long car

    A god himself could steal a girl in，

    Clothing its metal sheen in the spectrum

    Of bars and discos and restaurants.

    And they are left， dripping rain

    Under their melancholy tree， and see time

    Knocked akilter， sort of funny，

    But slowing down strangely， too.

    So， what do they dream？

    They might dream that they are in love

    And wake to find they are，

    That outside their own pumping arteries，

    Which they can cargo with happiness

    As they sink in their little bathyspheres，

    Somebody else's body pressures theirs

    With kisses， like bursts of bloody oxygen，

    Until， stunned， they're dragged up，

    Drawn from drowning， saved.

    In fact， some of us woke up that way.

    It has to do with how desire takes shape.

    Tapered， encapsulated， engineered

    To navigate an illusion of deep water，

    Its beauty has the dark roots

    Of a girl skipping down a high-school corridor

    Selling Seconal from a bag，

    Or a black car gliding close to the roadtop，

    So in

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