There where occasion has been, a steady snow—
or is it boundlessness
that occasionally drops to the ground

That women in their marble glory still
had pubic hair so startled Ruskin he
turned impotent, and had to be divorced.

I look up at the clock.
It’s time to go, so
I cover the typewriter

At dusklight she slips
into acetate underclothing,
all rustling.

Uptown for freelance techwriting,
then home. The mouse hole at
the stove needs plugging. But first,

I lie down in the grass
under the stars, on
a night that can

I wished you awake for the bird song,
Such a sophisticated bird song at five in the morning,
Like a twelve bar blues, each chorus had a variation—

The near past and the near future are poor,
with no accession of hands, no bright legs—
useless, untender absences with bronze torsos.

After the old man fell
and broke his hip working in the garden
the shrubs next door grew free,

You must change your life, Mademoiselle
from Armentières, while the days are in your favor.
You have other battles,