A large room, with an upright harpsichord in one corner. A young lady was playing the instrument, whose face was heavily carved with cherubs and fruit. The young lady played a series of English folksongs and then slipped into Bach’s Passacagliain C minor.

It’s raining for some reason over West St. Clair St. 
That merges in a cloud bank with Riddle Rd.; 
Evening Star Lane lent me to kiss Iris one fine night 

My weakness is for color words.
It doesn't begin to annoy until such time
As the parrots and Africas are

Stately, green-shuttered, midwestern
In its space of grass. The House;
But beyond this, weeds in the buckling tar.

One is solicitous of it
as a unique Himalayan rosebud
smuggled out of Nepal.

Wherever I look you are islands
a constellation of flowers breathing on the sea
deep-forested islands mountainous and fragrant

Enough inside jokes,
let's move this bash out
under the stars. Heap up

Tonight I saw Dustin Hoffman
walking down Lexington Avenue.
He lives on 61st Street

I was warm on the quadrangle
Warm on the grass by the library steps
Eating my sandwich

I still liked anyothertime,
anyotherplace. which means most
of my life, but it was now,