His watch is wicked, going on
without him. Pass your hand
across the blue man’s lips and

The wheel went round and left me
on a block of broken bottles,
spirits spent. So where

In the poor doldrums of the day
The shuffling sails hung empty until John Field
Blew music toward them, and suddenly

What do I see? What do I wish to tell.
How haunting the shadow of a metal stair
Circling a tank is in the evening sun?

I never imagined
him buried thus,
to the din of trolleys

It’s the small package
I’ve carried with me
these dozens of years

Over rooftops, over time
the rain washes. And walls
that had watched men die

    She stands over a fish, thinking about certain irrevocable mistakes she has made today. Now the fish has been cooked, and she is alone with it. 

    A man in our office is really a dog. He does not do well, is slow and clumsy though extremely good-natured. 

    People did not know what she knew, that she was not really a woman but a man, often a fat man, but more often, probably, an old man.