— unpredictable thoughts

I bring myself back from the streets that open like long
Silent laughs, and the oth­ers
Spilled into in the way of rivers break­ing up, lit­tered with words,
Crossed by cats and that sort of thing,
From the know­ing wires and the aimed win­dows,
Well this is nice, on the third floor, in back of the bill­board
Which says Now Improved and I know what they mean,
I thread my way in and I sew myself in like money.

Well this is nice with my shoes moored by the bed
And the lights around the bill­board tick­ing on and off like a bea­con,
I have brought myself back like many another crusty
Unbar­bered ves­sel launched with a bot­tle,
From the bare regions of pure hope where
For a great part of the year it scarcely sets at all,
And from the night skies reg­u­larly filled with old movies of my fin­gers,
Weight­less as shad­ows, grop­ing in the sluices,
And from the visions of veins like arter­ies, and
From the months of ply­ing
Between can and can, vacant as a pint in the morn­ing,
While my sex grew into the only tree, a joy­less ever­green,
And the winds played hell with it at night, com­ing as they did
Over at least one thou­sand miles of empti­ness,
Thump­ing as though there were noth­ing but doors, insist­ing
“Come out,” and of course I would have frozen.