He could come back soon, unpacked
knife to threaten, rough-grabbed
pout and piquant blade. I am always

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.

They are wrong: one can die from heat
or one can die weeded and bland. Shoes
will forget they walked ever down steps

On holiest day dismal I am digested myself, composed.
There will be one of these each year, specific apology,
each sin. That of horrible tongue, cut-rusted, that

At the same table, in the same taverna
he waited for the boy to return.
At the table every night with cognac and cigar,

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, 

Far, far away, men cut
The sea-wide, sea-green fields of cane.