Leaving Aside the Bloody Catalog
The most private, the most serious thing, because the past has disappeared
(while you were rooting
for Gary Cooper, that the "Indians" were you, wore your hue and labor
We'll get to the dream in a moment, in another way, this dis-expense is snapping
On a fast northern street, eastern-suddenly, the black girl in the gray slicker, shaped like a story-
I'm talking about her orbit- four years of shore collecting in her footsteps (the credibility of the garment is how it inflects the body
soft, appreciative, rescue wishes- I'm finally ready to be as everything as I've been
And the improbable mechanics of her owl, of her face full off hours, and how
it's almost now
A phantom
of her kind of answer to the hard gray pants or flickering dandyism of a runaway man, kind, like when Kerouac called us dusty (negros) from the hop of the least subtle train in the lobby of sluggish fugitives
He whistled and any drum built a masculine shoulder into the slopes of brief attention: tomorrow, tom-tom, slack, he took the blow back like tuxedo cloth magic of where you look, when
I'm talking about the wrist set out forlorn and perfect to where people are proud-living off the reflexes of beatnik rumors and then see her and then we are certain/
ballads,
brisk riddles of fellowship: it is said that he resisted and they beat him with sticks
also that the menace of it was how radiant looking she kept/looking-
Everyone becomes a glass-eyed pervert for the sure/glory of city rue rhythms is only hers,
sturdy rubber guardian of our yearning to be young and near, too young and near, our sense of curtsy, sempre, swarm, who is he, who sent him our record before liaison, and our madness
