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

“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—

I dropped my new shoes in the stream, thinking perhaps
They would get there before me, like two drowned Jews
Trundling along the seabed to Jerusalem. My immigrant parents lost patience and thrashed me.

A girl reclining by an open window
I do not say this was
the only thing one saw that day.

Confused sentences sweep across
the windshield. Then nothing but white
commas exploding out of the night’s

This roller coaster was condemned 
in 1925. You remember that, how the shingly 
underpinnings creak as the cars go clacking 

It’s Thursday and you are alive,
you are at a sidewalk café
anywhere in the world

Like the old phoenix which, the more it got
Burnt up, (recycling its own stuff, no doubt,
For it did not burn down) the more it grew—

The breaking of things can look like an origination
But then reveal itself, through lights shimmering in fragments 
Of smashed glass, as having occurred too late to have given

Off to the Gulf and hoping to have the time of our lives,
We found but the signs of fever there: the prostrate horizon,
Unable to drink of the distance, and only appearing at sundown,