It wasn't the sun sparkling Or the dog of the neighbor Barking.

I am only ever What you seem to be Without the leverage Of sweet reality

It isn't a half-cracked sidewalk iron-wrought, October lamp-lit at midnight

The photograph has no date,but these are my long-ago kin,ancestors just before the boat,six stone-faced on the English shore,sepia on cardstock under glassstill clear in severe, dark clothesexcept one who has been markedout, maybe with black wax,which runs to the bottom…

A procession of our somber youth— stoned and stunned and broken beyond repair—viewed the boy carved of putty. The mortician painted him stuffed him, presented him to us, the semi-living.

Shakespeare had red hair / Van Gogh never painted a nude

Shred all the letters and rip the arms off the clocks / Choke every dog on his leash and piss off the public docks / Make an ass of myself and a mess the world would pay to see

Jackhammered men hollow out the building, cart away decade-old works of other men. Exterior walls stand. Rooms have been demolished. In another day see what came before progress. See trees. A squall is coming. Ask about the…