The Brooklyn Rail

for Lewis

Blood red juice of winter
where we hold space
for the dead
    I dreamt of Allen
reading a poem
about Philip Whalen’s
new garage
that might have
amused you
on a snowy morning
on President Street
after 25 cents for
a loose cigarette
at the bodega on
4th with a slight lisp
of satisfaction
of not having a garage
or knowing what to do
with one–
    the air is a pie
full of June’s old
frozen berries–
    whoever’s left
can put that
in their poem.