Eligible for Parole
the past can be seen as a crater brimming with water
On a site the importance of which is not known,
The present is at hand:
A bitter sky, the wet inside of a rotten nut. Brown clouds.
Darkly, invisible, symphonic wind
Performed all night outside the city. Morning
Was another story: the city roofs,
Stormcleared, seemed almost clean. Weather like a mood
Like weather, the stiffness yawned out
And stumbled from, got up and found the stove
Where I had left it. Spark-leap. Auras almost
Materialize: a blue flame blooms, blown. Almost
Electric air distills
Lifting all the dirty curtains of New York.
Rinse coffee-cup. But now, too,
While the past
Falls, collapses on itself,
The present is cheap as air, and air is free
Until the seasoned, skillet-colored sky
Turn and spill its rain.
The weather of unconsciousness still hangs
In the apartment air until the first
Wiggle of black reflection is brought up
To still-awaking lips: coffee-sip. And
Outside, rain begins. Look forward to
The day's escape from dreams.