8. Mardi Gras


Skyscrapers split up
I found at the bottom Canudo with uncut pages
For a quarter

In a used book shop on 14th Street
Your improvisation on Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony

One regards New York as the mercantile Venice of the Western



The Cross opens
There’s no commune

There’s no aeropagus

There’s no spiritual pyramid
I don’t understand very well the word “Imperialism”
But in your loft
Amidst the wistitis the Indians the fair women

The poet has come
Color Word


There are hours that ring


Roland’s oliphant

My New York hovel

Telegraph messages
And the sun brings to you the beautiful body of today in

     newspaper clippings
Those baby-blankets


February 1914.