Friday, September 21, 2012

four dollar twenty five


weeks of Chelsea morning
bitter cold beckons
my country, in my mind
my puppet twin, in your lake
as you remember to fill icy cubes in my vessel
my great wall of icy cubes 
stained with yellowed nicotine
or your caffeine

in trivially sublime Chelsea mornings
quiet bellow at condensating ends
to windy second change

my country, still in my mind
I am in your morning once more
with those frothing emptiness again
this time I emptied it myself
and remember how that sounds
"four dollar twenty five"
breathed in Wallace Stevens' phrase