IT'S THE REAL THING


Underneath a sycamore tree I am sitting on a bench
dedicated by plaque to the memory of Ben Morgan, who
“Hated this park, and Everyone in it.”
The park is about the size of a convenience store.
It is in the town where I have stopped to eat toast.

As long as I’m here, I count up in my mind the people
who saw us, standing in the place where we stood,
and with our eyes closed,
in the style and in the original manner
of the word yet, and who examined us in its
transverse arrangement.

It is unbelievable
that I could at any moment open my mouth
and use your name.