Peter mentioned it, Em and Woody get on board.

Let’s go
spread out like patient, half-deserted streets.

The women come: O Michaelangelo,
licked, lingered, let fall,
slipped along the street,
rubbing faces
that you murder.

The women come: O Michelangelo!

Do I dare turn back,
descend the hair—
morning coat, my collar, the chin,
my necktie, arms and legs—

Do I dare
spit out the butt,
Bare in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!
Its perfume
that makes me
lie along a table.

Should I begin?

I go at dusk through narrow smoke,
rise from the lonely men in shirt-sleeves,
scuttling across the floors,
smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or

should I force the moment to its crisis?
My head grown slightly great,
the great flicker
among some talk of you and me—

swell, start a scene or two,
an easy tool,
glad to be of use,
a bit obtuse
at times, almost ridiculous—

the bottoms
blown back,

blows the white
till we drown.