My Sad Self

To Frank

Sometimes when my eyes are red I go up on top of the

CA Building           and gaze at my world,

Manhattan—                     my buildings, streets I’ve done feats in,                           lofts, beds, coldwater flats —on Fifth Ave below which I also bear in mind,           its ant cars, little yellow taxis, men               walking the size of specks of wool—   Panorama of the bridges, sunrise over Brooklyn machine,           sun go down over New Jersey where I was born             & Paterson where I played with ants—   my later loves on 15th Street,           my greater loves of Lower East Side,             my once fabulous amours in the Bronx                                         faraway—   paths crossing in these hidden streets,       my history summed up, my absences             and ecstasies in Harlem—       —sun shining down on all I own       in one eyeblink to the horizon               in my last eternity—                                     matter is water.

Sad,       I take the elevator and go             down, pondering, and walk on the pavements staring into all man’s                                           plateglass, faces,             questioning after who loves,       and stop, bemused             in front of an automobile shopwindow       standing lost in calm thought,             traffic moving up & down 5th Avenue blocks behind me                       waiting for a moment when ...

Time to go home & cook supper & listen to                       the romantic war news on the radio                                     ... all movement stops & I walk in the timeless sadness of existence,       tenderness flowing thru the buildings,             my fingertips touching reality’s face,       my own face streaked with tears in the mirror             of some window—at dusk—                                     where I have no desire—       for bonbons—or to own the dresses or Japanese                       lampshades of intellection— Confused by the spectacle around me,           Man struggling up the street                     with packages, newspapers,                                           ties, beautiful suits                     toward his desire           Man, woman, streaming over the pavements                     red lights clocking hurried watches &                             movements at the curb— And all these streets leading           so crosswise, honking, lengthily,                             by avenues           stalked by high buildings or crusted into slums                             thru such halting traffic                                           screaming cars and engines so painfully to this           countryside, this graveyard                     this stillness                                           on deathbed or mountain           once seen                             never regained or desired                                           in the mind to come where all Manhattan that I’ve seen must disappear.