"March 3."
I'm kind of-- and we had a snowstorm in New York
that the mayor was not ready for,
and the whole city got completely shut down.
And so the next time we were going to have a snowstorm,
they were like, I got this.
And so they shut the city down, and we didn't have a snowstorm.
It was so great.
So I was teaching at NYU at the time,
and I had my snow day in bed by myself writing a poem.
"The quick exchange of email"--
Think maybe that.
"The quick exchange of emails between the former lovers
creates a soft hole in the day.
And the night before, it snowed, but it
was supposed to be larger, and everything's closed.
The streets are wet, I hear, and I won't step into them.
One poem for today, but no-- many little ones.
The coffee slightly altered is good.
My bare feet in bed, ready to work.
I work in the field of dreams where I've met you many times.
I feel closer to you this morning,
and probably last night, when the doorway slightly
opened because of our notes, was flooded with ghosts.
When I was young, I liked the emptiness of my home.
And now, like it or not, there is this sweet accumulation.
The cameras, all that everything I do can't touch the single
statement of breeze, and loss, and quaint beauty--
things I've had since I was a kid--
the secrets of my home.
I feel condemned by this chaotic museum of stuff.
And yes, I desire to photograph it-- the bowls you like,
the cup you touched, and me in a t-shirt that
used to be special, and now I carouse in bed with myself
in it.
I don't know if this will ever be different,
and that is the feeling of this.
I feel like a tree-- the invisible parts of friendship,
and drinking together, and mourning.
One empty wall is the least I can do for myself.
Late at night, I enjoyed the brown pages of a cowboy show.
TV on my lap till practically dawn.
Interesting-- written by a gambler.
Oh, I have so many shows--
one in Florence.
One day, you were taking a shower.
I think I thought I loved this television because it's
become the way to love the road of becoming.
Is a screen belonging on it in my dream?
The excellent moments-- the man barges in and says,
do you ever think about film?
The poetry of accident haunts like a circus tent
over my days.
And that fades in a new one.
I began to write about dying.
This story ends.
It begins to be part of the plot.
And do I love you for your distance from it,
or could I love you because you are close,
or you're exciting, different, so smart?
I love myself.
The squeaky little voice that says, in here, owning the void
and grooving on it.
Voiceover, you're not so bad.
And then I begin to work.
My dead mother is around my lover, not far.
Keeping you here by not calling anyone--
is that the tub in which I die?
Weir-dooo.
Woo, woo, woo.
What's that bird?
Because I don't have kids, and this is such a blessing."