Days became more days. He sat on the snow fence,
his head feeling gender's allegiance
by the mere image of her complex blond hair.
Blackbirds tablatured the trees
outside his barn-like trailer.
He needed more snow, and love,
as is the nature of a type like his.
Wanting to score, he fluted the wind out
of rocks in the driveway.
He preferred a phone call to the expected missus,
but fear arose due to the Erebatas in Japan
breaking down because of the American language
borrowings found in so many newspapers.
Besides, she hadn't noticed him four days earlier
in his rehearsal in the supermarket
with a cart full of pears and beer.
After all, it was still 1964.
His cat was hiding from strangers
under the bed, and the expected's hair
falling over the bed
in the trailer, Oh God!
would not be appropriate.

Oh, le self of the heart, the French and Scottish
both told him. He was meant with them on the business
of mass communications of music
and violin-making in a hotel lobby
in some forsaken state with his same self.
Equations of their liking knew she would
grow big in the kyte, as happens to the best of them.
A sky-killing member if there ever was one,
she wouldn't stay, only in memory,
and maybe not even with a dress at that.
Stupid boy, he wanted to love her still
as if asking for it for God's sake,
for only the tomorrow of yesteryear.