2 o clock blues

Under the blue dome of New Hampshire
where I reside like a glass eel
people are screaming at me from windows
in meaningless tongues,
the high winds are rowing cattle
people have figured out that I am a crazy creep
and there is nothing I can do about it
ripples are going off to the edges of the world
to be doused in further ripples
celebrated Sundays are vibrating in ceremony and bread
there is a circus of fools unfriendly
to strangers and the strange
and they lurk in their lounges and hallways of death
like the zone of a drowning minister
punching and fawning no shortage of prophylactics
setting up stones and hopping over them in quick succession.