Oh to be telephoned late at night by a stranger whose voice
projects nothing but bright concern, nothing intimate
between you except a common regard for the hour

It was as though the very day itself was wearing a see-through
   blouse weeks before
a mastectomy,

Today it’s the blimp over Manhattan,
in search of some unnamed event. Drowsy,
gaudy, lazy, almost sexual, its beauty

The early days subscribed to us,
     first warming to our blandishments,

Someone slips by you in the corridor of a crowded train, a
stranger making his way
   to the bar,

I hate bow ties. Allow me to digress.
Remember that leafy aphorisms
sometimes grow out of idle burbling

So many channels to choose from. Somewhere
in the high numbers blockheads trash-talk
during recess in the blue playground near school.

The good life is unbuttoned, questions
about gender just stirring after a raucous night
under the hammock. Rumor has it that trellises

Baseball is the purest sport, meaning
ballparks out in the heartland, mixing
fork balls and slurves, tapping

Everything about
a human
is doomed