The New World Poem by Tony Towle

You've left me by myself and I fall to pieces into the river.
It's the same voice, this time between 3 and 4 a.m.;
four lies about blondes. Boom, a quiet sun. I still like
toast and jam, in fact I feel like toast and jam; it's spring,
1961, an invoice; I'm selecting poems to be read in the villages
and in front of the troops on horseback.

It's the grand opening all over again. There's not a scar
left on the patient; an empty stomach, we see a souvenir. The
victim is an American scholar, his life and loves. It is time
to look in the dictionary. It is time to go to the airport. What
a day to take pictures. I make my living by taking pictures and
selling them. I cannot be angry with myself. The parachutes
sway in the wind. Now his head is up and his feet are down.