Each of them had been
gesture and glance for
another, had been as earth
or mother, had rested
a hand on the back of
a blank page, been the occasion
of a dog growling inside
a dark house, had been as
rain, footsteps, murmur
on wet lips, had made another
move, if only
an inch

Another shitty thing about the eighties
You never knew whether it was a movie
Keeping you awake or just a song
I’ll have a burger and a glass of coke
Tell me what you meant by “score some weed”
Oh, my God, my wallet, in the cab

Anthony. Was it some way of talking
You used to have, a way of listening
To numbers, waxen deaf to tonal music
Since most by numbers judged tunelessly sung