The shame disposal across the hall was
warped, a blue cellophane bag mouthing
its mouth, a detritus kiss and me with
long-johns cut short!
What to think with the receipts and such?
With the used-up napkins, those notes
of unpoetic shapes…with heavings.
If only I hadn’t looked, if only I
hadn’t hoped! But if’s, only’s,
they’re a mounting! They won’t
contract, compact as they hope/look to be.
Maybe a tomorrow will be more op-
portune, maybe a yesterday was
just a fluke. And the Balebusta?
Daguerreotype of liver spotted leather
(dropping honey-cookies), a hollering
down her footstool’s perch as the bus
comes this morning?
Abetting, imbibing, bad at both:
A blue, a cold and coolish cloud-light;
What an inconceivable
year embedded in this headache—an old
beginning, and them—my pockets,
ink-dotted and avuncularly unclean.