Barefoot Las Vegas. A place devoted
to the possibilities of a spark.

Funny how the unnecessary
can seem so important

The man stands in his boat in his oilskins
On a stream in Rhode Island,
Casting across the pool wedged under his bow

Lonesome as the color of your hair
Unbound at sundown

The body pierced by a small hole,
or the lampshade, invents you.

Arcades brick dust a rose lamp burns in the upstairs window
everything I will say I have said already         still again the
arcades the dust the light to be built by the bottle the box

How the seasons come unwrapped:
a rash like an orchid swells beneath my shirt.

And the toilet is running,
and it’s autumn all at once.

And the rain falls exactly
like rain only inside you.

No, I'm not the Austrian—you're confusing me
with Dora—the one who deserted Freud
before he had his chance to perfect her.