by David Lehman

    I like walking on streets as black and wet as this one

    now， at two in the solemnly musical morning， when everyone else

    in this town emptied of Lestrygonians and Lotus-eaters

    is asleep or trying or worrying why

    they aren't asleep， while unknown to them Ulysses walks

    into the shabby apartment I live in， humming and feeling

    happy with the avant-garde weather we're having，

    the winds （a fugue for flute¹ and oboe） pouring

    into the windows which I left open although

    I live on the ground floor and there have been

    two burglaries on my block already this week，

    do I quickly take a look to see

    if the valuables are missing？ No， that is I can't，

    it's an epistemological quandary²： what I consider

    valuable， would they？ Who are they， anyway？ I'd answer that

    with speculations³ based on newspaper accounts if I were

    Donald E. Westlake， whose novels I'm hooked on， but

    this first cigarette after twenty-four hours

    of abstinence tastes so good it makes me want

    to include it in my catalogue of pleasures

    designed to hide the ugliness or sweep it away

    the way the violent overflow⁴ of rain over cliffs

    cleans the sewers⁵ and drains of Ithaca

    whose waterfalls head my list， followed by

    crudites of carrots and beets⁶， roots and all，

    with rained-on radishes， too beautiful to eat，

    and the pure pleasure of talking， talking and not knowing

    where the talk will lead， but willing to take my chances.

    Furthermore I shall enumerate⁷ some varieties of tulips

    （Bacchus， Tantalus， Dardanelles） and other flowers

    with names that have a life of their own （Love Lies Bleeding，

    Dwarf⁸ Blue Bedding， Burning Bush， Torch Lily， Narcissus）。

    Mostly， as I've implied， it's the names of things

    that count； still， sometimes I wonder and， wondering， find

    the path of least resistance， the earth's orbit

    around the sun's delirious⁹ clarity. Once you sniff¹⁰

    the aphrodisiac of disaster， you know： there's no reason

    for the anxiety——or for expecting to be free of it；

    try telling Franz Kafka he has no reason to feel guilty；

    or so I say to well-meaning mongers of common sense.

    They way I figure， you start with the names

    which are keys and then you throw them away

    and learn to love the locked rooms， with or without

    corpses¹¹ inside， riddles¹² to unravel¹³， emptiness to possess，

    a woman to wake up with a kiss （who is she？

    no one knows） who begs your forgiveness （for what？

    you cannot know） and then， in the authoritative¹⁴ tone

    of one who has weathered the storm of his exile， orders you

    to put up your hands and beg the rain to continue

    as if it were in your power. And it is，

    I feel it with each drop. I am standing¹⁵

    outside at the window， looking in on myself

    writing these words， feeling what wretches¹⁶ feel， just

    as the doctor ordered. And that's what I plan to do，

    what the storm I was caught in reminded me to do，

    to shake the superflux， distribute my appetite， fast

    without so much as a glass of water， and love

    each bite I haven't taken. I shall become the romantic poet

    whose coat of many colors smeared¹⁷

    with blood， like a butcher's apron¹⁸， left

    in the sacred pit or brought back to my father

    to confirm my death， confirms my new life

    instead， an alien prince of dungeons¹⁹ and dreams

    who sheds the disguise people recognize him by

    to reveal himself to his true brothers at last

    in the silence that stuns²⁰ before joy descends²¹， like rain.

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