A man like snow in Paris beautiful machine
Riding into the stars
A world of Michaels

The muse at daybreak stuttering, informs my bed,
pines in the scented winter air for poems,
and mumbles about the government and whether I should vote:

When I was little and lived on Queens Boulevard my
mother told me stories   the coffee is boiling
The soldier at left throws his grenade into the air

The violet slave ripped away,
dull muscle that had grown here,
vulgar pillow of the pearl.

The wind is heard hollering
through open spaces
between the dirty sheets.

The gulls glide, in 1939, into the bonus of another country, 
the balloons and machinery of all the Europes and Americas, 
a hundred million words at ease in the river, 

You’ve left a hole
the size of the sky
in the chair across the table

An envelope under the door.
Feel the strand that bridges it
to the hand of the mailman,

Silver crashed and the lights went out in Ashcroft.
A century passes in a dream.
Some houses stand,

for Nicole Doise

The way to this is. Not easy to find when you know
how it ends, the clutter of was. Hard enough
finding one's own face in the brass