Seasonal Works with Letters on Fire

The Hour Until We See You

T H E H O U R U N T I L W E S E E Y O U When we part, even for an hour, you become the standing on the avenue baffled one, under neon, holding that huge red book about the capital—; what will you be in the next hour, —bundled to walk through creamy coins from streetlamps on sidewalks to your car, past candles reflected in windows, while mineral sirens fade in the don’treturn ,—driving home past pre-spring plum blossom riot moments of your thought . . . Those trees rush to rust leaves, each a time-hinge with great energy— they can’t bear inexactitude. News of revolts in the squares—there— & here, the envious have gone to cafés to speak in order to leave things out— Love, literature is in flames, it was meant to be specific—; you have driven past these rooms ten thousand times to make your report; make your report; you will never forget how you felt— 4 5 ...