“An Archive of Confessions, A Genealogy of Confessions”

Now the summer air exerts its syrupy drag on the half-dark City under the strict surveillance of quotation marks. The citizens with their cockades and free will drift off From the magnet of work to the terrible magnet of love. In the far suburbs crenellated of Cartesian yards and gin The tribe of mothers calls the tribe of children in Across the bluing evening. It’s the hour things get To be excellently pointless, like describing the alphabet. Yikes. It’s fine to be here with you watching the great events Without taking part, clinking our ice as they advance Yet remain distant. Like the baker always about to understand Idly sweeping up that he is the recurrence of Napoleon In a baker’s life, always interrupted by the familiar notes Of a childish song, “no more sleepy dreaming,” we float Casually on the surface of the day, staring at the bottom, Jotting in our daybooks, how beautiful, the armies of autumn.