It’s tragic but we were in camp with surrogates.
At the time we called it puppy love.

I unbuttoned my supplies and began to think of golf.
Nixon loved China, I recall, followed by the dead and dreaming end of history.
The descent to choral music stipulates a view.

Part of the golf course looks back facing the street, partly passing it... a science fiction flushed hollow years ago, bit parts looking on outside it and still walking through adhering to nothing, just passing, but also taking root ornamenting impurities of the electorate.