“My mother lit me (father was her match)And set me in a draught to catch my breath.
The corridor, a New Jersey of the West, its stucco newness.What king was it that built this highway?
It’s a routine we’ve worked outto pass the winter.I saw myself in two, in three,into a puzzle,
How I hate you tonight!I tick offthe bumps on your back,your hangnails, the acid
I watch the point of the twirling stickWhere you are sleeping, where you will come again.
They left their dog and a record playing,the boy and girl next door. Last night
they argued to music, like they do;
I wallowed in a needle-spawned world,addicted to dope and the crazy life,and yet there I was—in Berkeleyfor my first poetry reading.
They are notimaginary butaccessible onlyintermittently.
It’s taken everything to bring them here: the peaches, grapes, oysters, the goblet of wine, the table & cloth.