Untitled letter

The blanket is down here, whitewise
and I wish I were also (upon you).
During the night I left Giacometti
in a place I can find him
during today’s one journey
far below Canal,
but before leaving at 2am
I sat by the window in Bar & Books
(this was on Hudson in the Village)
and watched the frozen water fall
as three men played Billie Holiday
& Bessie Smith in good black jazz
and I thought of having everything
almost.

Returning
the city was bleached and empty
some postcard unimagined
and I remember a dog loose
running for its life
as though its tail were on fire
or its heart about to burst
because of happiness.

This morning the snow has ended
the day begun
but I wonder still
about that dog
and never having to read
Bonjour Tristesse.

[January 1996]

 

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