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.