I know a man
who never saw villa borgese.

when the summer rolls around
beggars rub silver gel
into their hair.  

every day I visit my doctor.
on a small scale, softly rubbing my thumb against
my forefinger
I’m crumbling the dust from that journey
into her baby palms.
so every day she sinks
one tiny step lower.
the doctor says:
see how the streets grow longer and longer each day?
isn’t that like orthography? like economy? like swans?  
a lonely myoma in the convertible
of its own light?

how come no one bribes the linen of your sheets while you sleep?
paul celan cannot walk the rope
forever dead.
_________________________________
coo! coo! a laurie, was laurie ist?
big science? golden cities? golden towns!