The house has at last disgorged its ancient
but no less colorful contents, fed by
a desperate milk, and I am back in
the city, I’m back in Harlem
now:
it’s taken a hundred bananas to determine the curve of
my ill-fitting head,
and you feel the meshes pass over you like sleep --
and binds your feet and ankles
as morning and the milkman arrive
and the strawberry man vocalisimus in the street,
or the image of you at hoops in the Tuileries,
or my loving those feral cats
in their little patch of sun next to The Firehouse Theater;
beautiful is
the pearl necklace as you toy with an orange peel
laughing as you fashion a planisphere,
an opera house.
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