The corridor, a New Jersey of the West, its stucco newness.What king was it that built this highway?
I watch the point of the twirling stickWhere you are sleeping, where you will come again.
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
The water levelcomes up whenyou throw instones, bricks…
Is it rude to tell men you don’t love them just the idea of them
The mind likes the squeeze of chutes and channels.
Things of my world, thwart, solid, chockablock,That I was wont lightly to wield and dandle,Now, button-bungler, fool of lid, latch, lock,
sic on it, the cameras: witch-green greasepaint canopy—pan down: the thick bamboo latticetwine-bound—pan down: dirt with rags to gag up,