“You really can’t write unless you read. You have to know what the game is all about.”

I was slapped and hurried along in the private applause of birth—I think I remember this. Well, I imagine it anyway—the blind boy’s rose-and-milk-and-gray-walled (and salty)

The scenes that were on the inside of his ribs,
when he willed them outward, they appeared,
tattooed, in front, behind, strips of pictures

The real is a wilderness
that ambitions calls a garden.

I’ll compare Jew-love to Roman light,
stone palazzi in travellers’ perspectives
obelisks and domes,