And then, I'm going to read a few poems
from what I'm working on now, which doesn't have a name yet.
But I have this idea that it's arranged by month.
So I'll say, "From January, February, March."
From January.
It is a luxury
believing a poem without occasion.
A man leans against a crumbling wall
and sighs, whose ancient air?
The way a thing comes up or settles in the dark.
These bloody days have broken my heart.