(the phonograph’s voice like a keen spider skipping

quickly over patriotic swill.
The,negress,in the,rocker by the,curb,tipping

and tipping,the flocks of pigeons. An the skil-

ful loneliness,and the rather fat
man in bluishsuspenders half-reading the
Evening Something
in the normal window. and a cat.

A cat waiting for god knows makes me

wonder if i’m alive(eye pries,

not open. Tail stirs.) And the, fire-escapes—
the night. makes me wonder if,if i am
the face of a baby smeared with beautiful jam


my invincible Nearness rapes

laughter from your preferable,eyes