Swallows. Perhaps when you will is the total black, being spoken
The many-moving sea-tides,
The night in silence under many a star,
Until the whole sea
has been taken up
and all its gardens
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford.s floated out and sat
through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi.s , listening
to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to
Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
Making her vast, like ruined buildings
in the sea, began to fade, of asphalt
twisting up and back
To some spring out of site
and everything recalls slick street
not as sombre
As December,
But as green
As everything
As spring.
verse collage from Howard Nemerov, William Carlos William, Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg, John Ashbery
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