A little hotel on the rue de Fleurus
Was bursting with you.

Your heyday had come when I was ten. We were down in
      the basement
To see if you were there yet. You Hooded! You overflowed

First came the age of gold, then silver, steel,
papier-mâché—and now glass: the transparent

briefcase I bought in Rome so you can see

This afternoon I met my woe,
   a formless sound.
I couldn't figure out her sex.

The Wish Department

Today I sight-read the last 
Schubert sonata: he wanders between keys: evasive

The song of the neighborhood children.
Seeming like something that hasn’t really started yet

Two gallons of apple cider.
A jar of pungent, pasty Yankee mustard.
“Two dollars please.” Boys on bikes

Up-and-down shafts of light brick
Lift occupants up into prisms or roofs
Of green copper, and then embark on the sky.

We have them, and live and think about them,
But then, what are they? Some seem like
Bigger deals than the rest, like those of big enchiladas
Or the CEOs of banks too big to fail, but why? Some seem
Meaningful for their commitments and accomplishments,
As no doubt they are, though most are unexceptional
And ordinary, and just fine for that. They’re all equal

An intensity that overwhelms the things I wanted to say to
      you