for Katie Schneeman / 6.6.98

or so it seems by hook or crook
of white frescoed night, it is night you see
& plenty of it. flights up, a door, push hard
Blanche Fleur I wonder
why shešs abounding hešs perfectly gay
you see. and the hook is sweet itšs for
the cat got out. kibbles I meant kid-lets
drip sweat, tears bubbling heart out of a dancer
who is speeding up her version of Blanche
Fleur. so food replaces trance replaces
sacrifice for solace. Edwin may I call you
I yearn for talk & solace may I call upon
your witty solemnity o how untoward
the world seems without it how cruel
& unAsiatic, how cumbersome
& why of all nights this, my wounded
bloody breast? will I arm again in
holistic operations of war theatres
& in the light of such an attention as his
with his minimal mammal things,
only whatšs needed will I dance thus &
thusly meet his magic cranky mind
and Katie helpmeet puts a spoon there,
just so & there need be no music,
no entertainment for we are in the moon
of his slashing solemnity raw
like a mood, though moreso because it is moon-
lit, the wit, the cat, his lying down,
a white-painted shaggy divan, beloved Dante
(book, totem) need I ever be thinking
wooden precipice surrounded by the
angels of secular poetry, could be his mother
if wood could breathe a morsel of hope
in the details of body & sock, or feeding
Katie mostly is him, we are frescoed sisters & really
she is the weeping mother for loss of actual
child in real New York time not this
dream Blanche Fleur scheme she twists she
turns to drop a blood-tear
in this room of painted floor, angled, Bill deKooning
candy light & slashing mind for the rage
of a fierce aesthete where are they?
ubi sunt shunts in his ledge, pull window up
all way, all ghosts chat back in long crooked loft
look over your odd shoulder
now read in unison the palm of Childe Edwin,
yes this is plan is palm is psalm
was how it was in dream, his left palm to be read
it was as if by spirit-choir, Ambrosian
he would go on, live long
I remember such a room like being in Heaven
on a cloud, above a cloud look down
know where everything goes & to
be put away, what sways, what needs dusting
the lines and veins of his hand rested over
his head pale Edwin Denby just lying there asleep
for to honor, mimic, instruct my dream