57th Street, c. 1995
In Coliseum Books, the calendars
imply DECEMBER. Answers I have none,
or feeble. And how could questions be sources
of pleasure or of profit? Her answers flick:
blue or 29 or candlebright.
December windows. Snowflakes spit like candles.
Cold, and books on shelves that make me cold.
All around, on shelves, final lines shrivel,
dead filaments in a lightbulb. Who can stop
without subtracting? Only, it seems, she.
It was “What Memory Reveals” and I
lived near Columbus Avenue at the time.