The problem of evil
can be brought home
in a classroom 

He’d like to be at one with his new self
but memories sit in him like eyes.

The haystack’s painting hangs in the Met;
the painting of the haystack, that is,
the one by Monet, not by van Gogh,

vive morte ma seule saison
lis blancs chrysanthèmes

The fog lies thick over the bay,
                                               above Mt. Tamalpais

what shape should I file my nails I wonder / follow shape of moon usually best / once I did them square

You have a raspberry silk suit.
May I fuck you in it?

Heavy, and now grizzled (pro tem) and generally high colored.
The voice light, tripping over itself, setting off at an angle
into the thickets of vocabulary. It’s gone; let it go.

“What changed? Same maisonette in West London,
the straight shot of Talbot Road, held onto in spite of everything—
one’s original intended went away, someone else eventuated—

Acacias. Acacias and rain make May here, the way
lindens and rain make July. Layers of complication and sorrow, 
which precipitate as opinion. Brusque. Off-kilter. Uncalled-for.