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Poem	Dapples my floor the eastern sun, my house faces north, I have nothing to say except that it dapples my floor and it would dapple me if I lay on that floor, as-well-forthwith I have done, trying well to mount a thought not carelessly in times forgotten, except by the New York Times which can't forget. There is always the morgue. There are men in the morgue. These men have access. Sleepless, in position, they dream the past forever Colossal in the dawn comes the second light we do all die, in the floor, in the morgue and we must die forever, c'est la mort a heady brilliance the ultimate gloire post-mach, probably in underwear as we met each other once.
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