[Portrait of the Duchesse of La Salle, Tamara de Lampica, 1925]
Jumped back from the curb
genuflected his winter coat–standing up, waved.
I waved back
Then, after I rounded the corner from Staples, he ran across the street, praised
God as he reached the other side, dropped to his knees, thanked God again
the name of father, son and holy ghost, and prayed like Christopher Smart.
Jubilato in front of the old Natural History Museum.
Black in the summer air.
Hot, steam, but no cat.
Blue, dirt blue coat, cotton quilt
Good warm sleeping cloth,
pillow, maybe couch, mom at night probably.
Desert of hell at day probably on the sidewalk
Drips through dreadlocks.
Prances the street like a flea on a dog
a street of glass to shed your ass
and glance and reglance your overall spit.
Now I know why poets wander.
You, poet, make your action wherever you are because
the entry muds itself to you as you see,
you live at the thick slime of it all.
Keep piecing the world.
Keep stripping yourself of home.
Take that courage.