I am nauseous on the metro. I have a sore throat, wet hair and a stairway to heaven the length of my patterned tights. I have pressing arrangements. There are poets and intellectuals to round up, he said. Come on, get to it.



Him over there, walking in swinging circles, he declared a state of play. He is in the other room, plotting, I imagine, seven warlike uses of childlike material.



And if I think of his face, it is still only of the U of his straight nose, his blonde eyelashes.