Telling our story is . . . painful as anything
I’ve ever done. More painful than. A lapse
Of time so long and I’d assumed, wrongly,

Because dusk comes in not long
after 5 o’clock in Chelsea
and lamps come to life, a gold

Entering a cave, or stepping outside at night,
artificial blindness, temporary
but absolute. And if I lost sight,

Posters of Juliette Greco, the Eiffel
Tower. A good French bistro in the Village,
Its cuisine by some oversight not yet
Widely known; all the more murmured over

No one but the prodigal returns.
Extravagance, the same as parsimony,
disguised a bent for pillaging oneself?

Beginning with a fundamental, which
Sounds tonic depths, then reasons up from there,
The will to truth parts company with prayer

The Wife to Potiphar

Regret his imprisonment? Yes! I wanted him dead.
But a month or two of Egyptian penal correction
Should serve the purpose. No, I don't miss him, not now.

So many verticals, and 
How every object is a bar 
To thought, the table 

Rumor, the homemade metamorphosis;
That with each telling modifies its key
Adjectives, its semicolons; that scales

Scores
               of scorpions
                                 honey-bright