and at noon I will fall in love
and nothing will have meaning
except for the brownness of
the sky， and tradition， and water
and in the water off the railway
in New Haven all the lights
go on across the sun， and for
millennia those who kiss fall into
hospitals， riding trains， wearing
black shoes， pursued by those
they love， the Chinese in the armies
with the shiny sound of Johnny Cash，
and in my plan to be myself
I became someone else with
soft lips and a secret life，
and I left， from an airport，
in tradition of the water
on the plains， until the train
started moving and yesterday
it seemed true that suddenly
inside of the newspaper
there was a powerline and
my heart stopped， and everything
leaned down from the sky to kill me
and now the cattails sing.