Hans Arp sitting in a chair

Alone he looks like a weasly disjointed memory. Hans is old, sinewy like the hand he prises day from, resting just there— & he’s worth every bit the night he’s dying of, alone— "Dark hole!" Arp isn't old man's meat, just rousing and ice-lashed enough And what churns inside, like shirt o'er forks, will just be the white of all insides, ol' saint with mostly work on his breath

My, what a fine chancy evening for cold ol' boys!

(2009)