He bestrode each gleaming chopper on the floor;
A kind old man, T-shirted, gave advice.
He wanted a bike his friends could not ignore

Ardea Candidissima, snowy
Heron or White
Egret, printed London 1835, not

You lived here once. City—remember?—
of formerly your own, of the forever beloved,
of the dead,

Collect and recollect. These things I do
within, where, present with me is the world
and whatever I could think of it,

In paradise the smell of engine oil
Will undercut the roses. The carburetors
Of Eden will distract the seraphim.

Just after Ludwig II's death the surgeons opened
   below his ribs and removed his heart:
it's now preserved, indeed enshrined, in a silver vase

Who am I who speaks to you?

Though that’s not it exactly. Try this. What behind the eyes had looked out so central, so

   The entrance to the Computer Lab opens like the oak
doors to a suite in the Plaza.

   Vast threads of CD-ROM talk spiral around the white

Something about what matters
   Breathes in the twilight blushing
         Everything here on the piers.

And the rest is taps, or reveille. Maybe
he lies with dog & god

beneath the Yorba Linda pines, adrift