This will never happen there, what-
ever happened yesteryear:

over there,

the old 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.