Dream Song 111: I miss him When I get back to camp

I miss him. When I get back to camp

I'll dig him up. Well, he can prop & watch,

can't he, pink or blue,

and I will talk to him. I miss him. Slams,

grand or any, aren't for the tundra much.

One face-card will do.

It's marvellous how four sit down—beyond

my thought how many tables sometimes are

in forgotten clubs

across & down the world. Your fever conned

us, pal. Will it work out, my solitaire?

The blubber's safe in the tubs,

the dogs are still, & all's well . . . nine long times

I loosed & buried. Then I shot him dead.

I don't remember why.

The Captain of the supply ship, playing for dimes,

thinks I killed him. The black cards are red

and where's the others? I—