Who is awake but the nightwatchman?Or the grim laborer in the graveyardShift? The spirit world is in transit—
She cannot hideher line of footprints in the snow.The trail leads from her window—
Nervous, twigs split, become swallows, jeté the platinum poring chits
over horizon’s bistered tinge.Is a murderer secreted in us all,
Unmarried, the heart ejaculateswhat it must, scarlet-purled, arterial,
away, away. Or conversely, married,it requires all—venous, freighted with wastes.
We lived in a painting, a pastoral promise of stepped Berkshire hills, the Midlands of green meadows in the distance dotted with sheep
I write in time to break into timelessness.
we love them too much to see them—
No, not insurance. What Imeant to say was “double identity,”
as in Boutros Boutros-Ghali,William Carlos Williams, Sirhan Sirhan,