Up — or out? — here:
a problem of preposition,
my uneasy relation
with the world. Whether I’ m
above it or apart. On the other side
of the latched glass door, a man
loves me. Worries. Calls my name.
•
Where — for art — thou-
sands of windows go dark
in slow succession. On Essex
and Ludlow and Orchard.
A thousand times goodnight.
•
A boy throwing stones at a window.
Right window, wrong boy.
•
Love goes toward love —
And the place death, down there
waving its white kerchief —