Good afternoon, John in Paris. Can you hear
your city station by transatlantic phone?
“This one or that.” Of course I don’t know who the tenor is.

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.

It was deja vu all over again.

I know this town like the back of my head.

People who live in glass houses are worth two in the bush.

Although I was tenacious, I never learned
  the wisdom and will of tenacity;
Although I was persistent, and praised for persistence,

P was going mad, more than before.

At one lowering finger, the park turned dead white.

Playing becomes a problem within a problem.

It seems we’re flat stones      pulled from wet sand

“You know it’s me.”
Death’s green face opens the bath door.