Psst. This is just for you, whoever you are, and not for any of the others. I am so excited by the possibility that you will be the one to read this that I cannot contain myself any longer. 

After long years of inner matter coming down out of the mountains of my central tract,

How hard it was to fit the last crayon into the bulging box; like the last person who pushes onto the elevator and is resented by the insiders.

Aside from the downstate confluence of Tri-Borough, George Washington and Throgs Necks Bridges, I have placed a kleenex box at a few of the second-string stress points which parallel the New York State Thruway,—at Syracuse which is on my kitchen table and at Albany which is next to the toaster.

Remember how we’d gape at those g-strings and pasties, and giggle and yell and leave blue-balled and pretending not to be?

Nothing will budge it. Not hot water. Not detergent. Not scraping with a steak knife. It stands firm—a thick, chalky scum blanketing the glass-bottom, glowering threats of foul taste and disease.

While asleep, a man gives birth to an idea of a woman. He wakes and finds it curled comfortably against him.

February on the narrow beach, 3:00
a.m. I set out south. Cape Cod Light
on its crumbling cliff above me turns

I don’t care if nobody
under forty can hang a door
properly. I’m six and I’m bored.

Are you looking for me? I am in the next seat!
My shoulder is against yours.