It’s so cold in here I can’t do anything

You stow them to the rear of worship: bits of jagged iron, 
candle nubs, miscellaneous gears and levers, each perfect 
unto itself but useless apart from its fellows. The human 

PUGIN
I was reading a biography of Pugin. Architecture
was how Pugin avoided God.
This much is evident. When he slipped out at night
to drift down to the water he was a smoke.
He did not look up at the moon. We can be sure
that any bargain he made was intentional
especially those he bound in straps made of snow.

The line, its sleek ark. Stow the creatures where the calendar
can’t snatch them. Coal is unreasonable in all its phases.
Into the open pearls, I was, at first, sure I’d read. The coasts of it, 

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

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

When Mr. Croxford
flicked his skinny wrist,
and the metronome began

   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.