Wild asters. A blue
wasp shudders in the gravel.
Laundry on the line:
yesterday, the day before.

and the sky, to, has its heavy book,
fat with the glossy photos of someone else’s dream,

The perfect ease of fish in perfect tombs.
She hugs her knees. her sky, her soul’s, small proof

Which heart shall it be tonight,
the fist, or the little lettuce?

In the extremity of anguish.
Lonely in solitary confinement,
Men have been known to perform

I wish my pussy could live 
in a different shape and get
some goddamn respect.

The Impressionism wing strikes me as too
dainty for my mood, except for one oil painting
by Gustave Caillebotte, Calf’s Head and Ox Tongue,

Phrase used by Whites to express their surprise and disapproval of social or political conditions which, to the Negro, are devastatingly usual. Often accompanied by an unsolicited touch on the forearm or shoulder, this ­expression is a favorite among the most politically liberal but socially comfortable of Whites. 

The masts are mostly gone, Walt. Pleasure-sailors
ply the harbor, piloting fiberglass forty-footers
down from the North Shore, one at the wheel,

Sluice me, stop my breath—still my 
  life to this, my fist 
taut, a hand of fingers feeds my