98

Notes toward walking home in Mongolian winter night

On the freezing walk no one
Wants you to be taking (here taxi drivers drive
Off with people, young blonde people
The jagged light of the some
What modern bank that is your
Beacon, the squiggle its cockeyed geom.
Etric after the police academy
In front of which last night you were
The only one on the sidewalk to hear
Sounds like a cow moaning
Coming from woman leaning into jacket of
Big man who looked to and fro (on
Another night it was a woman who was bent on
Lying down on the cold cold dirt even
When her male companion tried to lift
Her there is no sense to be made only tens
Ion to be described it’s the cords
Running lines under the layer of sidewalk
One man is always minding
Tonight he was down there under among the web
Sometimes they are above
Ground and you step over them like white
Elephants next to the government house they shine
Bright lights into the dark hole they are making
In an email from a friend from Brooklyn who says
She feels like a preposition
The damp that began as sweat inside the soviet
Overheat becomes what the wind finds
Your prison is of your own devising:
The loneliness his body worry instead
If you must worry whether the woman
With the dirty pursed face is squatting
In your stairwell build a structure
In your reason as to why you deserve
The key.