You can’t get attached to the moments, she said. They fly away. 

District of tenements, squat brick laundries,
warehouses with shoulders like boxers’,
and one shop that sells ancient maps,

The house burst into flame. That’s a cliché, I thought, burst into flame. For I had been reading day and night. Perhaps I left the stove on after cooking an omelet. Or let the lint cake inside the dryer. Such was the fascination of the book, though scholars who study it all their lives, lives that pass in a breath, claim it has no answers. I held my copy close to my chest, 

The great Evening has fallen and the world has grown tired
like a blinkered dray horse knock-kneed in its harness.
The trees are little green puffs and the flies slower and dimmer—

last words in Brooklyn

I

Admire my patience
in the grave in Sunset Park.

And then the drug takes hold
And goes down into your arms and your fingers.
Wipes the pain along in front of it, washes

He asks me to make his ass tight, to give
him more and thicker hair. When he seeks himself
in what gets written, it's to learn

Impossible to stand. Or to sit.
Impossible to sleep.
So I squatted in the cage, my knees trembling.

I am prowling, my feet are damp.
I am snatching at things to save my life.

My anger is such that the very ice-fields would melt,
if I had the power.
If I had the power.