It was now a matter of waiting
for the haughty naughty beguilement of warmth.

The long-suffering sofa. A circular scene: the bull enters
the ring. The myth of man’s disobedience.

And what shall we drink? Water from rivers
risen by snow that was desperate to melt?

And tightens until language can’t bear this
Hollowing, crash cart, Please. In the silence,
A bus slithers by.

The raging distemper finally forced me to breed
a new brand of silence.

Siren girls sang somewhere. A boat rocked. She could see
nothing, really. No clairvoyant forecasts.

She said as the cab passed the building
She’d passed in her childhood, is pathos.
Its mean little whip of pity. The force field filled

Pres spoke in a language
“of his own.” What did he say, between the
horn line

Well let’s assume it’s yes, but this is not a conversation
for the telephone, you know, our ears
have vigilant listeners, so let’s just prepare it in

What is a verse not to be thought
in the oval rows of the stadium, where
crowded