Crepuscular things
crowd me
that airtight apartment
has always been
full
of
long-lost pa**ions
shifting in and out of memory
I look at all these
figures
from an impossible
distance—history is over
at that table
no use running after
some survived dream of
Orson Welles
setting the country
on fire by radio
—the painter in his basement
under one lightbulb
the ice man crucified
on Little Italy
and stealing Zarathustra
from Macy's for the size
at the war's dawn
—all to
presage
dying—
subtract him out of day
—it never slips in there
—too gray
it's snowing
the city is drenched
in fog like a medieval island
Brooklyn Bridge immortal
talking to the weather
I live on the
surface of things
black snake at
Cleopatra's hand
—notice the way people
fare—the shoes
they wear
in honor of the
storm
Tiresias at the
midpoint
tells us
what we are
reality's
unquiet heart
same with walking and
writing
—can't turn back
I get out and ice
is coming down
outside the
Radio City
music hall
I have the
wrong shoes
on
and ads for
“an inspiring
hotel”
che questo?
Baccarat
I slide
into the labyrinth
by escalator