Sudden cold or the sudden sense of having been cold for a long time 
He said he was getting back some things that had been lost like what  
Love oh great looking out across the river he wouldn’t meet my eyes either 

This is where I count the hours
in the word “carnival.”
Where autumn dries its bones.

The man stands in his boat in his oilskins
On a stream in Rhode Island,
Casting across the pool wedged under his bow

Already the butterflies yellow with August
And the Jersey shore piled with houses
There are train whistles in the distance

Arcades brick dust a rose lamp burns in the upstairs window
everything I will say I have said already         still again the
arcades the dust the light to be built by the bottle the box

The octopus is dead
who lived in Wylies Baths

No, I'm not the Austrian—you're confusing me
with Dora—the one who deserted Freud
before he had his chance to perfect her.

All me are standing on feed. The sky is shining.

All me have just been milked. Teats all tingling still
from that dry toothless sucking by the chilly mouths

I glory centennially slow-
ly in being Guugumbakh the
strangular fig bird-born to overgrow
the depths of this wasp-leafed stinging-tree,

One sunny afternoon on Morningside Heights
From the window-seat of the Crosstown bus,
I gaze up momentarily between chuckles
Amid Jean Paul’s tendril-flower of allusions