I do not make phone calls, talk to anyone,
      let alone write. Even this letter
is mailed reluctantly. I move without cause,

I have no new myths for fat, yellow colunins
and a discarded Baedeker at the Drake.
The stories I fall upon are old and distant,

As your eyes are blue
you move me—& the thought of you—
I imitate you.

I woke up thinking abouy my brothr’s body. 
That q That was my first bit of early morning typing 
So the first dignity, it turns out, is to get the spelling right.

of the lowercase, of indian pipes,
a locket of thumbnail photographs
that opens across the room,

Why don’t you go downtown—
in one manhole
and out the other—
past thirty-two

The man on stilts 
lights his cigar
from the glow

To talk about the weather is not just passing time
but an occupation in a city where weather
dictates streams of confused syntax like snow

Five is the sum of this world figured by the senses,
and the tally of the planets to the naked eye,
four directions with one person wandering at the pivot.

Having done compline by hand at the naked breast
with fingertip and ball of thumb, with tongue,

having with tonguetip traced from breastbone