...There’ve been complaints on my block
Of a white van that—hold on, the washer
Is done—drives slowly behind
People or peels out if approached
So who knows, the difference between

Waking and sleeping has diminished 
To a trance. You feel it when you watch
The clothes spin in the dryer, during
Self-administered stress tests 
Beside others on the elliptical, any 
Time you’re not really going anywhere 
But suspect existence anyway,
Receive its special offers as though
They’re meant for you. In fact,
They’re more like visiting that portion 
Of the cemetery filled with unmarked
Graves, a potter’s field, the term 
Coming from Matthew 27:7 :
“And bought with them the potter’s field,
To bury strangers in.” The “them”

There is the 30 pieces of silver
Judas returned. When I visit Ferncliff 
In Hartsdale, where my brother is
Unmarked, and Malcolm X buried,
I won’t know exactly where 
On the right side of the earth to stand 
To make sure of nothing in particular, 
A prosody of focus going wide. 
That’s not till April 3rd (I found him). 
Blake mentions a potter’s field in Jerusalem 
The Emanation of the Giant 
Albion, where he abandons 
Blank verse, as it itself did
Rhyme, for a newer country