Apparition Poems 12.29.13


Out of the apartment, walking down
East Eden Street, I note somewhere
in me how it might feel to be homeless—

also inaccessible is the glad warmth
of generous times richly lived, which I
used to know so well. As the sun rises,

something/someone other than me
sees the whole tableaux, meets me in
the middle— wires, houses, lights—


The encumbrance, in a recession,
against Wordsworth— there are
no visible incidents or situations.
People huddle in corners, die to
themselves. Imaginative colors
are always black, white, grey—

nature’s primordial green stung
from view, seemingly forever.
The starkness of our green is
its blackness, in being what we
are not. The “perfect image of
a mighty mind” inverts into a

perfect scourge, thought past us—