We tried to appear vivid 
and eager until the inevitable 
Dear This, We Regret That 

sliced us with a dated paper
vernacular. One pamphlet
on singing shuffled among

telegrams about yapping
and all of them burning. 
We call ourselves the future

country and mean to say final,
try to chew audibly enough
that we can find one another

in the unceasing night
that swings its black
axe through us. Vermin,

scalpel, fruit—we grew attuned
to crash’s register, illnesses’
inscriptions, sharks lingering

at the spigot that raises
and raises some more the seas.
At unscheduled meetings

I refuse to argue, haven’t
any more the energy, but if 
a leader emerged what new  

trouble would blossom, what
worse affection might misshape
itself in its gleaming wake.

I won’t grovel; I need you nearly
as much as an umlaut changes
the sound of the waves.