A return of sorts:
to warmth and checkered-line patterns,
to flickering flashes of cathode ray,
to pre-packed bread and wick
burning of candy cigarettes;
the kind I trust in half-step.
Faces too stern to attempt a static,
weakness besets the bravery notion:
the luxury of defeat proffered to
scholars and men of careful tithe.
Far tempting is reflection: on
and on the whistled tune of many
more manuscripts for dissection's eye.
And I give in easy,
lanky as untouched rag doll,
and bordering the calm collapse
of solitude tears.