They take you through my life
one poem at a time,
memory’s beast raging
through the pages

For Jews, the Cossacks are always coming.
Therefore I think the sunspot on my arm
is melanoma. Therefore I celebrate

Is there no music now
except the chime
of coins in the pocket

Every Sunday they left a circus of dust behind them, 
as they poured out on the turnpike in stately, overcowded 
                                                                                           carriages,

Now the small buds are pronged
to the boughs like candle-butts.
Steaming April! The adolescent park 

an ear goes for an ironic walk it greets the increasing entropy denying however a lupin the cloud column is introduced the ear turns itself into a doric helix by means of a sound shift a logos reveals itself as a transvestite nevertheless the ear continues to listen a prefix is riveted to it an apophony calls generalities into question and evokes remote tenses whereupon 

oh of course I was often a second time
in rome—but at certain times I was also
actually there for the third or fifth time. when were

   Four plates of raw
iron, folded over one
   another, could not, they saw,

          —A sunlit lot. Clear-cut.
                Slash smoulders. Crabs of a beer-
colored grass. A torn-up midden heap,

I let it go. Waves throw back
                white bodies and ivy twines
         in hollow trunks on slopes