A love song

Let us go then, you and I,

where the evening is playing out

inside the hollow radioactive pile

the giant lobster boiling in the dried-out pot;

Let us through this certain cornered street

with stuttering chirp-and-tweet

of Geiger swipes to Sleep Motel

and the Sushi Restaurant

with its radioactive oysters in their shells:

the tweets and chirps seem hollow

as the hideous

aftertaste whose tangy metal smell

leads us to an overwhelming question . . .

just what is a becquerel? -

Oh, do not ask!

The Yellow Sea returns

the sky with re-fused hue

this end of dazed!

The patient has no watchword.

_____

gw2011