Later Fragments

I hid away from privacy in privacy,
beneath the question of the self.

Has the mail come yet?

Has he come yet with the mail? Has the mail?
The mail? Why am I always boiling?

***

I waited for the poem,
watched the beam-shape shadows
of the meters sway from east to west.

The line-shaped shadows of the posts.
The pole-shaped shadows of the people.

The man-shaped shadows of the trees.

***

I sat with the poem like a man,
before scrutiny, during scrutiny,

after scrutiny. Waited for the birth,
the afterbirth.

***

There wasn’t wisdom in it,
but I waited like I was waiting in a line: in iterations

of myself, impatient, needling,
needing badly to pee and so peeing.

***

Like waiting for a breath of white
smoke from the conclave, a signal
that the democratic experiment

has succeeded. Like waiting for black smoke

from the conclave
when the democratic
experiment has failed. The democratic

experiment has failed.

***

I waited for the personal,
ate bean soup from a chipped bowl.