and how can I begin to tell you,
while waiting for something as ordinary as lunch,
and with just these mere days lining my jacket, how the city lit up
one evening under the behemoth Russian sky that
burn Baudelaire, the gospels I had been reading,
to turn the grey in your beard silver? suddenly make no sense at all.
and what if we missed the sunset,
a silhouette of the sun creeping across the sky, sold gabardines,
dismissed the constellations, pillaged graveyard towns,
hung from precipices, taking life-like pictures of a fall,
hundred feet of surging wind. will you now say to me -
this is ordinary, that this can grow anywhere?
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