POEM FOR JACK SPICER
GRISAILLE AND SANGUINE
White horses of advertisements, or so—
How quickly our habits pass backward—
A lucky strike, an arrow central
Or a ball spinning proper to the pin—
This paper punches, the black on white
With splash of red for memory—
Every recollection of death
And every contention with the present—
When we’re certain you’re still alive.
