I’m laughing at her, that red-cheeked doll,
my storm-of-the-century. She is icicles!
I’m hoarding odd gallons, dreaming of fear.

More than the eyes looking back at you
More than the voice quelled in the throat
More than the bed and eider quilt beneath the window

I’ve heard that you said, when a scene you had revised 
Still didn’t suit a man you used to know, 
“But I am not Kafka!” What artist hasn’t sized 

Two rooms, rather, one flight up, half-seen
Through the gilt palm fronds of rue Messaline.

Sparse furnishings: work table, lamp, two chairs,

There is a city whose fair houses wizen 
In a strict web of streets, of waterways 
In which the clock tower gurgles and sways, 

Come, try this exercise:
Focus a beam,
Emptied of thinking, outward through shut eyes

Across the sea at Alexandria,
Shallow and glittering, a single shroud-
Shaped cloud had stolen, leaving as it paused

The Fence

Once upon a time is what the fence dividing up a mountain 
range announces, in lines at once irregular and even.

Paint blistering on the ceiling of the den:
Excuses gathered speed, helping no one.
So I walked up the same mountain as before.

The plant etched on the wall sits in its pot
as calm as anything—
as any thing not