Closing. William Faulkner.

the lighting is dreadfully
bawdy and grappling over its
own hoofed feet. a newborn horse. dropping
lightly to the scraggy field
lower
and
lower until it must retrieve and run.
ugly words. and things.

this is a newer place. in the last two years. built with a face upwards to the
rubber heat of
the state road. route 70. south.
it is bad
luck to build
on a roadway. Faulkner said so.
the
dead stay dead and drink lengthwise the drunkenness of
being shied away
from that
dreadfully lewd lighting. things do not have to be draped
in green or covered with plastered ivy or heavily degreased with
cleaning
liquid that is as noxious
as the corpse of an
olden god along the highway. all night the cars yawp past with odd license plates and places-to-go. once
a muffler fell to the ground with a loud resounding noise that
woke the horrible light
overhead

and he stirred.
and he had slept on the wept tabletop. his face glinted in quiet Formica. and wettened

oh sputter blindly.
be as mad-eyed as the raving
war veteran who thru' his hands
up and said

"the light in here is too bright. I am going back to Leningrad."

and so
he went.