Poem [“Khrushchev is coming on the right day!”]

Krushchev is coming on the right day! the cool graced light is pushed off the enormous glass piers by hard wind and everything is tossing, hurrying on up this country has everything but politesse, a Puerto Rican cab driver says and five different girls I see look like Piedie Gimbel with her blonde hair tossing too, as she looked when I pushed her little daughter on the swing on the lawn it was also windy last night we went to a movie and came out, Ionesco is greater than Beckett, Vincent said, that's what I think, blueberry blintzes and Khrushcev was probably being carped at in Washington, no politesse Vincent tells me about his mother's trip to Sweden Hans tells us about his father's life in Sweden, it sounds like Grace Hartigan's painting Sweden so I go home to bed and names drift through my head Purgatorio Merchado, Gerhard Schwartz and Gaspar Gonzales, all unknown figures of the early morning as I go to work where does the evil of the year go when September takes New York and turns it into ozone stalagmites deposits of light so I get back up make coffee, and read François Villon, his life, so dark New York seems blinding and my tie is blowing up the street I wish it would blow off though it is cold and somewhat warms my neck as the train bears Krushchev on to Pennsylvania Station and the light seems to be eternal and joy seems to be inexorable I am foolish enough always to find it in wind