five thousand feet above Sing Sing, you talk of your father, how thieves left him to die

Figures sprawl around the fountain, stretching out Like cracks across gray stones,

A city with no factories smolders in the afternoon, Above it, a dome of exhaust rises without a train

Golden brown parasols clustered near oak stumps, as if an artist

The dark woods invite me in to walk on pine needles between tall spruce and fir,

Without a hope of getting it right, the lake, calm and round, like a patch of mirror...

the week before you should have returned it you died without warning, the last pages