On the other side of the street, the buildings sit on smoke,
About to lift off—it’s spring!
Cosmonauts and astronauts comfortably in their apartments in armchairs

My mind went on composing its account at night,
I could hear it tracing glyphs on the hard substance

Discretion is the very soul of your pants pocket:
first, because your pocket hides whatever you put in it,

The economical ikebana
of the lesser octopus
is disarming,

In a deck chair
under castellated clouds
Campari and tonic

Not days of anger
but days of irritation,
light through dirty glass,

There’s a woman
walks through me
sits at the table

The stream is frozen
except what’s flowing
below what’s frozen.

You are in bed
and Antigone’s dead
once again though offstage

It rises from the North Atlantic’s stacks
as radio silence, a generalized lack
of discursive tone or narrative movement distinguished