Last night I dreamed that I was you
& the poem was finished. Not that I havenít
been trying: to wake out of this
dreamless flight becomes harder each
morning: quiet except for soft voices coming
from the radio: another I have wearied:
I slept while you wrote about sleeping.
That was on Cooley, near the freight yard: apt.
B6: the sound of the trains coupling like thunder
woke me: 3:10 a.m.: and thought: what
present has entered my wanting? Though I
was always waiting out: the snow, the sleet,
daylight: a pigeon is caught in my veins: cannot
open that window: cannot open your body.
& is it the body that lets us know that need
is only need, & if so whose? Are you too tired
to fly out? Yesterday: caught sight of myself
in a shop window: something else I cannot hold:
someone else I cannot press my fingers through.