The funny thing is that he’s reading a paper 
As if with his throat 
With the bottom half folded neatly under his chin 

You acted patiently.
You turned away from the play‚
Which was always beginning;

You are my Sweetheart; 
Sang the tin can 
I was sitting on a truck 

I am living in the Siberia 
of your rose 
there is a family of us 

I was thinking where are we all going when we were 
Going through the snow on the ground, underbrush 
Beneath like the New England personality going 

 arch     film      duds

 “Cheever”         can aiming laps

dorm  sieve

The door behind me was you 
and the radiance, there like 
an electric train wreck in your eye 

A dazzle
of a day,
even though it's two below.

There will always be a distance  
Even when things are pressing  
Against one another, so hard 

The immense hope, and forbearance 
Trailing out of night, to sidewalks of the day 
Like air breathed into a paper city, exhaled