Lately, what have you, my arrogance, been writing
in The Pieces, the sense of you in That Library on the shore one of me
let’s say
come out of it & pull myself together, the long dust these years from which
some kind of formal statement might stay fairly anchored but, well, a larger view accumulates &
finds itself some altitude toward the world

                                                presents me with insinuations, at first inviolate
            and extemporising what tunnels or outpourings
I’m selfishly disinterested in Words
                                     (as if it were Plastic shape! O Wallace, O Jackie,
                                     the fire delights in concrete roneo
                                                                                    the phallus in I–talico!

of course, in the park, as it were, this is my drop of water and that’s your drop of water so

sick again with art we list lies &, specifically, killing sprees, pamphlets, posters,
      billboards, all 
signal to excellence &
the Signorina, sleeping under the book, legs over feet, considers Dis
course Iscario;

                        OK, they return & apologise for a State of Feeling, the addenda
                                                                       that if an elephant were Not
                                    standing on your foot, Ginsberg, yeah, well, sure,
         but reverent feathery references and particulate anguish
shower us, Very Alert &
         In Drag with the new suit,
                               Sans Mostachio.