the scrap metal yard, the Sexy Land; the path
beside the road that gives onto a swath
of blackberry, a rubbish culvert, a bed
of green on which nothingness lays its head—
take your chance, keep going and going, then cross
over, let go your breath and accept its loss.
No more advice; you’ll do as you are fated.
Foreigners pause from making cakes to smoke.
How strange: where you come from almost everyone’s
in a dismal sort of show-biz. And just look
(the world is small): a costume shop—of course,
such things have been aspired to, dreamt of, loans
taken out for. Indeed, one could do worse.