The things that recollect us. Cigarette ends
and bits of paper of scribbled poems
and napkin drawings. The cones come in
and bits of paper of scribbled poems
and napkin drawings. The cones come in
countless flavors along the magenta boulevard.
Two boys a Sunday morning sleep
naked on a dirty mattress,
wake blear-eyed and hungry
in Winter light. But far from the James
the silent Hudson flows to the sea.
In his plush solitude the meta-
physician twangs a steel string of
a mostly broken guitar. "Speech too was
thought to be inhabited by a god."
Now the suburbs and the falling
gray flakes of light. Tolling reminiscent
bells. Autumn bees.
in Winter light. But far from the James
the silent Hudson flows to the sea.
In his plush solitude the meta-
physician twangs a steel string of
a mostly broken guitar. "Speech too was
thought to be inhabited by a god."
Now the suburbs and the falling
gray flakes of light. Tolling reminiscent
bells. Autumn bees.
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