I find cat fur in this book reading
Frank O'Hara and screaming ahead
to his lovely literary turns, I
also came her eto be alone I catch on
that word while ten thousand books behind
me rustle in the wind

ducks speak a foreign tongue -
all consonants, curious grammar -
on the lawn outside where there
is a predatory bunny, I saw it,
truly I did.

My companion packs up his books to
leave, dreadful nibbling sound of it
nudging us to move along.

And I don't write at lunch or
in a good cafe breathing light into
cigarettes but I do

write comfortable now with my good old
pen staining porous hands ("little")
as though they could be big,
and my companion is leaving, walking
his sneakers down the restless aisles and I
think,
no,

maybe I'll stay here and pull a bed from
old Frank I'm sure he wouldn't mind,
rest my head on airy things said by Hillaire
Belloc, got to sleep as
ducks outside discuss the sunrise.