Elsewhere, splits in the seam of sky,
To what pleasure do I owe your absence?
I see you are developing the love-bomb (sigh),
In the grammar of life, are we past tense?
From your hat-eyes, you pulled out a rabbit,
O Sorceress, your magic then became a habit,
Now there is that painting on your wall,
Down below, the city gnaws at its own tail,
From the wharfs of my ache (in the winter of my Fall),
A hundred thousand dinghies set sail,
Silos in my depths, stockpiles in my marrow,
Our mushroom clouds are substantially of sorrow,
"Nothing ends," Adrian said. There is no illusion of destination,
Because we, senora, have set out on separate expeditions.