hissing and gaping, and this time it won’t stop —
  nothing will stop its mud-black heart—

Summer afternoon, Henry James said,
the most beautiful words in the language.

When all the ghosts got up and walked out, they were
left with a vivid sense of screen doors closing,

Why not change her policy and do something?
Track her young man down and seduce him silly?

I lay cold beneath his coldness,
stiff in his stiff embrace.

I have no hands now
to touch or take.
I am all eye.

Stoic mathematician,
efficient wizard,

Night’s ending, time’s tearing.
   And the cross streets fuse together in twisted images.

   The girl’s dark hair—
   hoarfrosted, powerless, luxuriant.

And once again we dug up the clear-edged
   dream-, or ice-quarry,