And I, on the roof’s edge,
what a burning angel I look for and am!

But I will go to the first landscape
of shocks, fluids and murmurs

That road
got no people.
That road.

New York, mire.
New York, wire and death.
What angel is hidden in your cheek?

My luckless lady needs no sheet of sun
Nor winter’s briskest word
   To stir her now.

If by this wanton surge
Devised for man and beast
When first a green world told

Alone in the house your father built
and you’ve always lived in, you walk with your cane
toward the door to the basement.

It’s late, and for once
your radio turns on by itself,
with a stereo broadcast

Do not rush.
Sudden sinkings have been rare,
though, eventually, the vessel does.

When Lady Venus takes her leisure 
A young man with a feathered cap 
Is sometimes told to sit beside her