like a child on the shore
playing with his toys —
the corrugated subway arch
is mine as well, we both
are in the middle distance.
Later we’ll go out to the ocean,
here’s an especially fine game
the little cars bashing heads.
It’s been long enough
peeling with the peeler,
The thing we have is sand
and time to measure it.
At Adams the open doors let in wind,
cold air sets cheeks
like a foundation for some new site,
mother looks at me.
and then agin.
It’s a form of marking time
as the freight drops, pops the clutch
Sun warms self.
A man write big and fat like him.
Why does the self clutch the Bic
and do it, does it, over
repertoire: a versiary of human
alien I, alien me.
The motes have a whispering ecologue.
We’ve “got” Lox. And Kimbark Plaza
and a separate volume for them.
The tool of separation scrapes the edges down to the bite.
I go out of the room, onto the street
past the newspaper dispenser, cross
to new Ithaca.