It is a loose sleeve whose hair wraps the
Bedouin on his pony and then slings him
Into the wind, always to be a monad

Everything turns into tape. It (check one)
        puts the multiples on a loop     (1)
        reduces all numbers to one       (2)

Now the trees tempt
the young girl below them

In 1954, in June
I saw a total eclipse of the sun by the moon.
I saw the flowers fold up, the birds

If the generation wither

twinkling slinky, our of which

how should I

17 floors
above 8th Avenue
in an apartment in 1962

lumbering           logging           lonesome

             lugging                                   muggy weather

numbs my brain

                              Tonight the
                              light is
                              right

I speak of one whose triumph
is like his own despair
“a prison we all carry”;

Up-and-down shafts of light brick
Lift occupants up into prisms or roofs
Of green copper, and then embark on the sky.