18 West 11th Street

In what at least
Seemed anger, the Aquarians in the basement
Had been perfecting a device

For making sense to us
If only briefly, and on pain
Of incommunication ever after.

But look who’s here. Our prodigal
Sunset. Just passing through from Isfahan.
Filled by him, the glass

Disorients. The swallow-flights
Go word by numbskull word
—Rebellion…Pentagon…Black Studies—

Crashing into irreality,
Plumage and parasites
Plus who knows what of the reptilian,

Till wit turns on the artificial lights
Or heaven changes. The maid,
Silent, pale as any victim,

Comes in, identifies;
Yet brings new silver, gives rise to the joint,
The presidency’s ritual eclipse.

Take. Eat. His body to our lips. The point
Was anger, brother? Love? Dear premises
Vainly exploded, vainly dwelt upon.

Item: the carpet.
Identical bouquets on black, rose-dusted
Face in fifty funeral parlors,

Scentless and shaven, wall-to-wall
Extravagance without variety…
That morning’s buzzing vacuum be fed

By ash of metropolitan evening’s
Smoker inveterate between hot bouts
Of gloating over scrollwork,

The piano (three-legged by then like a thing in a riddle)
Fingered itself provocatively. Tones
Jangling whose tuner slept, moon’s camphor mist

On the parterre compounding
Chromatic muddles which the limpid trot
Flew to construe. Up from camellias

Send them by your great-great-grandfather,
Ghosts in dwarf sateen and miniver
Flitted once more askew

Through Les Sylphides. The fire was dead. Each summer,
While onto white keys miles from here
Warm salt chords kept breaking, snapping the strings,

The carpet—its days numbered—
Hatched another generation
Of strong-jawed, light-besotted saboteurs.

A mastermind
Kept track above the mantel. The cold caught,
One birthday in its shallows, racked

The weak frame, glazed with sleet
Overstuffed aunt and walnut uncle. Book
You could not read. Some utterly

Longed-for present meeting other eyes’
Blue arsenal of homemade elegies,
Duds every one. The deed

Diffused. Your breakfast Mirror put
Late to bed, a fever
Flashing through the veins of linotype:

—Bulletin-pocked columns, molten font

Features would rise from, nose for news
Atwitch, atchoo, God bless you!
Brought to your senses (five feared? not one bit)

Who walking home took in
The ruin. The young linden opposite
Shocked leafless. Item: the March dawn.

Shards of a blackened witness still in place.
The charred ice-sculpture garden
Beams fell upon. The cold blue searching beams.

Then all you sought
No longer, B. came bearing. An arrangement
In time known simply as That June—

Fat snifter filled with morbidest,
Possibly meat-eating flowers,
So hairy-stemmed, red-muscled, not to be pressed.

Pinhead notions underwater, yours,
Quicksilvered them afresh.
You let pass certain telltale prints

Left upon her in the interim

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