I’ll never forget the day I met
The author of Prufrock and his wife. 
It wasn’t a big occasion,

child sprung from
the two of us—showing
us our ideal, the way

A red hand on the horse’s flanks
One hundred-and-some years ago
In these same precincts

What was it?
Something became lodged in the machine.
That was it. Which inflection could not cure.

At first light there are voices.
On the landing we can see
the parts on their heads.

Come celebrate, kinsmen, the twilight of freedom,
The darkening conscience, the great year obscured;
Into the boiling waters of nightfall

Through the wild herd of horses, the streets of night, I shall be rushing 
Seeking a blossoming alder branch in a black springed sleigh. 
For a bonnet of snow I shall be searching, for the endless mill-wheel noise.

I shall not see the famous Phédre 
In the ancient theatre crowned with tiers, 
Its gallery rising smoky, high, 

The shelves are ugly and next to them is a garbage chute leading God knows where. Entire pallet loads get dumped in there: 2 years, 3 years, 4 years, as boxes wind up on the charity van, back in the world. Some of it is shredded; some is crisp—laundered once, folded, never worn.

When hunting, an Inuit man makes an igloo a day. Some of them have ice windows.

Once a day he walks away from the snow house by the snow hill.

An Inuit elder who saw an airplane says, It was talked about for a long time. It was constantly talked about as something that looked like a loon that