A Season of Guilt     This order of events, the strangeness of our lives, donned in a musty suit, loose trousers and pinched waste, leaving for the road, where you could recall yourself, pleased with the dull, rocky wasteland, the heat on the head, the wasted years in the sun.   To return as the empty shell, like a father who lost his child, the shame of sitting in an armchair, thinking death has left a layer, a sediment, a season of guilt within the home.   The scarred fiqure, a chimney sweeper with blackened clothes-a young man crawling through dark brick.   What you were to be, petered to a myth, A steed full of booze-the drunkard painter, a gangly watchman, touting his gun in the shadows.   The diner at a famous meal, a photograph of a hundred guests, weeping on the sofas, behind the heavy curtains. The tragedy of who we are, scattered in a tribe of nobodys.

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