This will never happen there, whatever
happened yesteryear:

over there,

the new toleration for
the American sinister.

Spare bought tissue
at the ferry’s New York dock,

I think I thought I was
an anti-lyric, song’s distant displace.

Affairs and meals merchandised in

It’s a quality of my work, a derangement.
No jerk

of hand to pants, the ample stolen
tissue. Up,

up and against;
Piled, pelting ice.

Can I Be Your Dog?

Caleb the Canine, yonder window-plane,
iridescent yellows, playing the glass.

Sung-spoke in soloist intimacy, to a deaf
tune, “Doggie, pretty doggie”, why they

call it–The Stroll. It’s Montgomery and it
isn’t, back of yolk-yellow signage, has it

now turned a Hunter-Green? They can
capitalize on a color, in a few words

when repeated, often enough, is simple
jingling. His hair-curls, off-white white,

my dress shirts never looked so white.
Sung-spoke out of a tube whitening

my tar-stained smile; black is how I like
it, after dinner for a treat. What’s on

the menu, it’s rough out there, Caleb,
just now skewered, for timeliest

perfection; yonder window-plane
Caleb, but be careful of that fleece.

It’s Getting There

I don’t often
talk about it.

The Depression of my days.

Nights are something
else. Bombs

and noise, speech

and sound. Nights
are something else.

Laden, leadened.
A body. The work


I don’t often talk.

We could be anywhere,
by now. I’m here—

working in a way,
no one can say.

I don’t often hear.
The Depression of my days.

Nights are something else.
Music, silence

and song. Entirely
like the days.

Nights are

something. Darkening;

to a working,