The same pus can always be squeezed from new soil
And after awhile they forgot where the fights came from
Slipping into the bog of clenched sleep and a language full of detail.

Morning deadpanned down the hall, awake and aware
That cures are always drawn from long deposits of disease.
They notified the next of kin from the office

And then left early after receiving assurances
That computers would never come into general use.
Sailing after knowledge, barefoot on Wilshire Boulevard

Where boys ran combs through their ponytails and lost
Their religion, caught between going to see
About a girl and going to see a man about a job.

From the upstairs window the little lights we could always see
On the bay winked like the digital future. We wandered
And sniffed like a lost dog turning over a jellyfish