On page 270 of the fourth

volume of Proust (‘Cities

of the Plain’) one hits

the first and last sh__t,

carefully woven in there

where it belongs, along

with everything else.

How I admire and envy

such style–such minute

glittering perfection of

texture; like the tiny

threads in my friend Lee

Metzger’s Yves Saint Laurent

coat he loaned me on his

honeymoon balcony, I was

so cold and covered with it.

Waves onto and off the beach scudding my ankles in the blue pall, fog hazy down the beach obscuring highrise beachfront units and fat Midwesterners dipping toes in the surf then squealing piggies smoke from a pork roast rummaging through the salt air and redneck cigarette smoke and we’re just miles from that thunder and now it’s thundering for real, far out and off the beach, out to sea, a mysterious Christopher Columbus hurricaney boom wet with mist and wondering.  These Midwesterners, though, don’t share this wonder, they only wonder how the Twins fared against the Sox, do they want their steaks rare or medium, how many emails when they get back to the office and meanwhile the eyes of the Florida South glare salt and bloodrimmed…

Yippy-ki

Beantown!

your happiness

in the loneness

void of love

and burnt of

foot, a long

exhale behind

the dead sky

yawning

First we were kids, little kids playing in the backyard, exploring the woods, not knowing the time or the ancillary stillness of things, not believing in the slowness of time, young not old not dying, knee-skinning, pool-pushing, locker-slamming little kids bright in the morning sun, getting our pantlegs wet in morning dew, air crisp, lungs clean.  Little kids.