Dapples my floor the eastern sun, my house faces north,

I have nothing to say except that it dapples my floor

and it would dapple me

if I lay on that floor, as-well-forthwith

I have done, trying well to mount a thought

not carelessly

in times forgotten, except by the New York Times

which can’t forget. There is always the morgue.

There are men in the morgue.

These men have access. Sleepless, in position,

they dream the past forever

Colossal in the dawn comes the second light

we do all die, in the floor, in the morgue

and we must die forever, c’est la mort

a heady brilliance

the ultimate gloire

post-mach, probably in underwear

as we met each other once.