By John Wieners.
Rain with a sour smell. Not to worry, though you might wind up with it — primarily a race against your own skin. The skull is showing. The jerking horses in the old footage, bound to end badly. Psychic hardening, I suppose. Poetry is arranged by sound. I can say no more. A beloved relative from out of town was arriving the next day with a brand new infant who would be tense, disoriented and distraught at discovering herself uprooted from her familiar bassinet and plunged into a great metropolis seething with cutthroats and cheap chiselers. People ought to get out more, play cards more, fight more, fall down more. But we don’t need each other to watch a film, streaming overhead. At your behest, I stood behind the statue, peeking over its shoulder at live persons, catching something of their tenderness. They’ve been marinating, the young and the tough. Meanwhile you should all have live blood cell analysis.
