cut up

Their male, in his resentment, pitches

Looking for something.

Bringing a young witch.
Her robe already licked by flames,

saw behind us, looming like the dusk
of someone else’s day, not hers, or ours,

a darkening
that still might be transformed

You can take the temperature of the writing from the very opening passage, where it is stated that ‘We have placed men on the moon, yet ... ’

He made sculptures from jockstraps, and hung near his bed a ‘masturbation machine’ – a ‘mirror with dozens of white lights that blinked off and on, like a carnival roulette wheel’.

The American Dream ended bitterly on that cold evening