XXXIV
                              And one thing more, there was some room for affection
                              and I. brought a flower with him, mostly he hid it
                              but on the bus he held it in front of him
                              as if it were a cup of wine or a candle
                              and he was going to proffer it—oh Lord—
                              eleven years ago—and when he walked
                              down the two great steps onto the curb he
                              raised it up, it was his own pitiful
                              candelabrum—one poor wick—and more for
                              balance than anything else and he was anxious
                              to put it in water so it could bloom again
                              and all for an older poet who was herself
                              younger than him, though she is dead now and I.
                              never talks to the dead for they have nothing to say
                              about their world but only yours, such as
                              does the apothecary still have ice cream,
                              or is it the Crescent that goes to New Orleans,
                              or how much do you weigh now—never never
                              what it is like or if there is consciousness
                              or where the others are—and she has written
                              one book I. loved and she adored the flower,
                              it was before she died; he used to give quarters
                              on this street, one day he chased someone for
                              two or three blocks to give him more money, it was
                              his dog, a black Labrador, who wore the
                              sign of suffering more than his master, I. felt
                              they were all helpless together though his quarters entitled him
                              and now he hates the quarters nor can he be free
                              for even a minute, you might say he’s on duty,
                              and he spends half his days studying ineptitude
                              and lying—you call it false witnessing?
                              You call it a crooked mouth part? You go to college
                              to study advertising? You lie in stink
                              for half a dollar? You fuck the language? You rape
                              nouns, verbs, adjectives? You like raping
                              adverbs? You like eating rye bread
                              at city dumps? You like creamsicles?