Phil says the writing is made out of reading,
but it is more a matter of overwriting, of under-
writing, of something erased coming to the surface,
the long years, random papers found in a box.
The box is not a window. The papers are turning
to dust. I take myself out of the box and unfold
myself, to appear before a window, but only
in silhouette. Two silhouettes on the shade.
Kisses I could almost taste, or have tasted,
but what about you? They come in different flavors
now. I find them downstairs by the elevator,
a little sweetness, which is good, because I spend
my life going up and down. What about you?
To be sure, life intrudes, and in its company
unruly love, its emblem an unspeakable pun,
done not in red but gray. Diver, you had a taste
for rum, but the unendurably impacted results,
Phil, the ineluctably fatal flourishings, are still