3282. AND SUCH A GLIMMERING WILD ONE

AND SUCH A GLIMMERING WILD ONE
We used to hang at street-corners, leaning on stone,
skipping a beat, watching glass and water : no, no,
we never stopped. The hard-angled zoo we inhabited
with cigarettes and wine, poppers and spikes, all of
that we knew like no others. Leather-girls in their
toney skirts, and not. Hookers at Stage 9, playing
dead-dice with the boys. Wonton chefs, singing
weird Chinese songs. I never knew collaboration
to taste so good. It was a long, long time ago.
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And just now you used a name I had not heard
since 1974 and before. I do remember him,
precisely, and even where his body stays.
Some nasty crypt near Bedloe's Island,
some Potter's Field, or one of those.
Those were East River days: they
took his lifeless body over on a skiff,
and soon came back without him.
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We once pumped the monkey full
of juice, ate the girl before she came,
wired down the torchlights for the
approaching storm. Now, Jesus lord
almighty, it's all so over and gone.
Distant memory, afar, like an
iron taste on a bitter tongue.