It was not male, who galloped
across a divided 
landscape, or female.

My thick hands tripped and stumbled
over the deviant keys,
my sour stomach off-key,

When we lift up the cover:
a brisk wind of bees.

So much happiness! It seems
everything I touch shines back, all smiles.
Sadness, that old sot, has packed his bags;

Could it be that Yeats was right?
This digital shorthand that will shake
the whole world up as the millennium ends

   I’ve just been writing a letter in which I announced that I had finished a novel with or without pain and distress, that the considerable manuscript was lying in my drawer ready to go, with the title already in position and packing-paper at hand, or the work to be wrapped and sent in. Furthermore, I have purchased a new hat which for the present I shall wear only on 

how many subway flights to tear away / this terror

I am thinking / of a broken-down blue door / in a flop house.

If you could only hear the chatter,
you would know how I was misled
earlier this morning when I woke

What we have         before us, obviously,
is the intestine.         So why, you may wonder,
did I call you         to the operating room