Gemelli d'inverno ( a dream )

The winter twins have guns and glasses

They seduce my pupils and wife, backlit

In the cafeteria, they want to organize a party.

I try to explain

The Principles of Medieval Painting and

scold the inattention of the few who listen

some absent, some deaf

on layers of thought, of surface.

The girl with glasses asks, “are you mad enough to hit me?

Because I wouldn’t mind,”

and she blushes

I grab a handful of toothpicks and storm out, flustered.

Peter shows me that his class has purchased panels.

They will use glue as a vehicle.

I have no time to ask about the eggs.

A dude on a bike asks me something, I ignore him

He changes direction, slows down, and explains

You could be on a jury

I tell him to fuck off and

hasten towards the bus

Just across the bridge, my keys jangle

The same bus circles the outskirts of Rome and Philadelphia

Leaves me at strange stations, off-peak, off-season

I walk somewhere, now in Pittsburgh, now in Brooklyn

Counting streets  4^th, 28^th, 89^th, like years, ignoring avenues and

North and South

I end up in Narberth Park, of empty swings

or Central Park, a green where no one has been

On a railroad bridge in Queens, a tunnel, an overpass

Like I said already

There is a long list

Some people will never think of me again and

My name might never be said.

Paul tells me there’s a river for this

In French

Of which has not been discussed.

Sprouts of heirloom tomatoes, eaten by snails.

Peronospora is the death of poetry.