Look, Mitterand baby, your telegram
of condolence to Yves
Montand tells it like it is

The starlings are singing!

You could call it singing.

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

on Greenwich Avenue
staring down Jane Street
into the sunset

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

Visitor to Witley Court
enter at your peril