Reads the book thankfully
Unread on the shelf, the gym through
The window across
The park deserted, the tips
Of three of
My fingers have grown
Waxy, taut, something
Welling between the surface
And the bone, a woman
In an eggshell
Shawl pours over
Her copy of
Southern Accents when she’s not
Leering across the table
At me, increasing
My ever-present paranoia
That strangers are reading
The terrible things I write
About them and will any
Minute be thrusting a sharp
Part of their body
Against mine, as now the snow
Has begun to flutter
And circle tentatively beyond
The panes like some Fellini-esque
Spring wildly jumping
The gun, though my Thursday
Boredom would certainly appreciate
An impromptu bonfire set
Flush against a cartoonish Italian
Bosom, in this way my
Biology attends concomitantly
To the shapes my looking
Constructs, and I am here
To appreciate the manner in which
A smoking woman
Wades through asphalt, how
One building dwarfs
A larger one merely by the effect
Of its character, a boy
Trying to pass
For a Tribecan sentry, combing
The grates with his eyes, his fists
Jammed into his sleeves like potatoes
In a windsock, not often am I
Menaced by darkness for
I find it natural, not
In me, but in the world, in
Imagination’s terrible reach where
Things occur which dwell
Deeply beyond the pale, not things we are
Capable of perhaps, but we see
Them nonetheless, much as Henry
Miller spent three years
Inside a slide
Trombone, I have
Found myself too
Sane, and sullenly I feel just
Like Bonnie Raitt on
The cover of Streetlights
Her mouth unselfconsciously
Open, a little
Question in her
Eyes as if
To say, “I am so
Full of this…
This…what is this?
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