Sheet-monger, blanket-hoarder,
wool gatherer of nightmares,
wrapped in white linen like a corpse,

Somewhere between Norway and Ireland
volcanic rocks and glaciers leap from the sea
My map has failed me, I’m there

Molds are made, two figures cast,
their plaster bodies glistening and since
light across a modulated surface

Show the runner coming through the shadows,
  show him falling into a speckled rhythm,
  and then show the full expression of light,

Heathrow could not touch things. 
They always shied away from him.

He was magnetic, but in the anti-sense of the word. 

I smear my lips with lipstick, my cheeks with rouge

Someone has brought potato salad and someone else has brought cole slaw.

She’d gotten into the habit of going nights
to a secret ledge on the apartment house roof

Good old Patrick Casey!

But why should monkeys concern us?