I had triumphed in bringing my life out of its
irreparable smallness where it had been close to being extinguished
or deactivated. It was a plain problem; it was the curse of the malcontent monster
who casually controlled my activity—
soothing me with sooty dishrags, cold cuts, the domesticated bleat—
the sunshine dank without luminous intervals.
New York was an icy dew of Neanderthal meets Oppenheimer.
People fussy with judgement and fuzzy with fabric.
In which case, I had to remove contracts from view politely.
I stole time and stole utopia.
I met some lovely people when I did that.
I was teaching poetry.
I visited friends and felt there was an unabashed fondness
even while preparing lunch.
When I came back, I knew my purpose was not a sunken pincushion.
I had some real clutch of consequence. I loved my lover better.