December 31st. 2:12 AM. Streets. Frigid. GLASS, dressed warm, walks with an uprightness peculiar for the hour and an aimlessness peculiar to the hour. He stoops and fondles the remains of a brick, feels its weight. Pockets it. Keeps walking.

 

Gl.

At night my eyes feel their way into the world

Piling casts of all they hope to see

Into lines which tell me I exist.

 

Your notes blow through these like a bowling ball.

I lay flat against my last best lies,

Hopelessly:

 

I search; I am searched for;

I reach; I am reached for;

I speak; I am spoken for;

 

I write; I am written up;

I think; I am thought up;

I dream; I am dreamed up.