He’s come to the beginning of the end
Of the poem, the moment when he turns
To place the first of its words on paper.

Never was there a time when I did not lead him,
when I did not feel his hand upon my shoulder.

Never was there a time I was not his eyes

 

rejoice, in fact,
over the quiet self-complacence of the toaster.

“I couldn’t think of taking
anything that was whole.”

One morning I awoke
to a dead pigeon on the roof
of the building next to mine,

In the country, a dog is as free as a roach

“The figure should be natural and relaxed,”
   asserted Mucha to his drawing class,