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Away, my songs, must we go
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a womanSummer bees were saying Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arcDown the long course of the gray slush of things the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the BabeAnd melt the spirit; his mouth will distend there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....That only you and I can know. Les deux Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop From there. Toward . . .Are gliding toward me on the ice into with visors. Their brave recreational vehiclesPallid waste where no radiant fathomers, And I would likegrow hot in the parking lot, though they're will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,Again awaken from your being gone to find