An hotel in whose ledgers departures are more prominent than arrivals.
With wet kohinoors the October rain
strokes what’s left of the naked brain.
In this country laid flat for the sake of rivers
beer smells of Germany and seagulls are
in the air like white page’s soiled coroner’s.
Morning enters the premises with a corners.
punctuality, puts its ear
to the ribs of a cold radiator, detects subzero:
the afterlife has to start somewhere.
Correspondingly, the angelic curls
grow more blond, the skin gains its distant, lordly
white, while the bedding already coils
desperately in the basement laundry.

This Issue

January 20, 1983