Party Line, 1962

Voices from a cloud,
a few gods,
two or three, insistent!
—some wrong visited on them, a crowd

of squabblers coming through the mist.
The kitchen’s
nearly dark. The cord’s
curlicued like a pig’s tail. You bend your head and listen

to their reports,
to their snorts
and justifications and you can make out—
like birds following each other in the sky—some words

of Walter Cronkite in the living room.

Five Miami Stornelli

Voices from a cloud,
a few gods,
two or three, insistent!
—some wrong visited on them, a crowd

of squabblers coming through the mist.
The kitchen’s
nearly dark. The cord’s
curlicued like a pig’s tail. You bend your head and listen

to their reports,
to their snorts
and justifications and you can make out—
like birds following each other in the sky—some words

of Walter Cronkite in the living room.

The Lens of Porcelain

Voices from a cloud,
a few gods,
two or three, insistent!
—some wrong visited on them, a crowd

of squabblers coming through the mist.
The kitchen’s
nearly dark. The cord’s
curlicued like a pig’s tail. You bend your head and listen

to their reports,
to their snorts
and justifications and you can make out—
like birds following each other in the sky—some words

of Walter Cronkite in the living room.

Suddenly Seeing in Absent Sandstone How It Will Be

Voices from a cloud,
a few gods,
two or three, insistent!
—some wrong visited on them, a crowd

of squabblers coming through the mist.
The kitchen’s
nearly dark. The cord’s
curlicued like a pig’s tail. You bend your head and listen

to their reports,
to their snorts
and justifications and you can make out—
like birds following each other in the sky—some words

of Walter Cronkite in the living room.

Nocturne

Voices from a cloud,
a few gods,
two or three, insistent!
—some wrong visited on them, a crowd

of squabblers coming through the mist.
The kitchen’s
nearly dark. The cord’s
curlicued like a pig’s tail. You bend your head and listen

to their reports,
to their snorts
and justifications and you can make out—
like birds following each other in the sky—some words

of Walter Cronkite in the living room.

The Literary Factory of Tennessee Williams

Voices from a cloud,
a few gods,
two or three, insistent!
—some wrong visited on them, a crowd

of squabblers coming through the mist.
The kitchen’s
nearly dark. The cord’s
curlicued like a pig’s tail. You bend your head and listen

to their reports,
to their snorts
and justifications and you can make out—
like birds following each other in the sky—some words

of Walter Cronkite in the living room.

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