My nephew stands at the door. I pretend to be
asleep but it’s no use. “Uncle,” he calls and I
feel that identity wrenched out of my tired nerves.

I have walked these streets so often I could
forge the shadows of skyscrapers as they fall
to rest between the sculptured air of midtown.

These eyes an accusation. 
Or quiet question 
Containing its own answer. 

Sat for three days in a white room 
a tiny truck of white flowers 
was driving through the empty window

A dazzle
of a day,
even though it's two below.

If I seem to patronize and always limit what I say
                to the cliches of affection, mother,
      and never give a good goddamn what you are doing:

Blue poles (well ?) on the beach
in a snowless winter and

I’m too cold to ask you 

Day changes from cannon to morning glory
her body dances death dances in the prell light

beads strung out all through Japan’s public parks, my head,

Now the trees tempt
the young girl below them

A trifle pompously, my love, you move among
                         the mass of nerve-
                 tissue in my cranium: