perhaps the Spring caught unwares by your long eyes said here is something I know that you don’t but I will share it with you (period) Perhaps you with your heavy horse steps and October balance ran into Spring and said (while) making love to a field of flowers I know (not the flowers please if yes more flowers petal by petal) something and I will tell you about it loudly but softly unpacking the engines of some design.
Under the weight of boston almost anyone never could be crushed but you took it with you kept it in your pocket like an accent worn down smooth
out of a top hat
Hard to be a saint in your father’s eyes goawd what a burden anything except perfection and you would be a failure but no worries money there was always money available making it so much easier to be or not to be a poet. Even on a Tuesday. And Winter the air so (very) cold breaking your concentration into small pools of frozen water.
Europe is a pretty town how now Paris or not with rich woman remember being trapped suspicion or a letter from pops to the pres-eye-dent and you gets paroled comma and that makes for a good book later
Chimneys and Cats (elegant sleeping) because suits and ties with men don’t understand the back-words logic happening could I
how your yellow dress (no, the other one) becomes
concerning field dynamics disrupted by the suggestion
of your legs moving beneath
thin cotton with blue
dots (as if someone had dropped a basket of berries)
backless (muscles beneath brown skin smooth flexing languid flexing live current to the oh yes
touch) and the so very green grass moist
drying in the sun and you Are
beyond even the ocean.
Like a horse
In search of balance and balance in search of a gallop you arrive sometimes or other times are already there which is mysterious funny even
like living across the alley way from Djuna who doesn’t speak except to curse or ask for more whiskey she received three thousand dollars
from Beckett after he won the prize
small pieces of green paper like tiny wings flutter around her and he would yell from across the street Djuna are you still alive (question mark exclamation point question mark) a poet in new York
old new York becoming