on Greenwich Avenue 
staring down Jane Street 
into the sunset 

The smell of snow, stinging in nostrils as the wind lifts it from a beach
Eye-shuttering, mixed with sand, or when snow lies under the street lamps and on all

The sky is pitiless. I beg
your pardon? OK then
the sky is pitted. The yard

I'll tell you who I am: someone
you never met
though on a train you studied a boil on my neck

Then I do not know what
to paste next in the
Trash Book: grass, pretending

I hate my disordered
backyard fence

For her size the moor hen
lays a large egg
and many of them

Visitor to Witley Court
enter at your peril

It’s time again. 
Tear up the violets 
and plant something more difficult to grow. 

On his knees, his back to us: the pale honeydew melons of his
        bare buttocks, the shapely, muscular hemispheres—

        the voluptuous center.