There’s a watch. Watch over by the windowsill. Telling Time by the watch over 

by the windowsill? I don’t think so. It’s a matter of tapping keyboard the way my 

grandfather George Gibbons played upon the vaudeville stage. Pray to him daily, 

believe it or not, crazily as it seems, to him who could jump inside a wooden 

barrel, & out, again, with similar voracity/veracity, the rhythm of that, that.

 

Dear George, Dear Eileen, Dear Roseanna, Dear Michael, ritual prayers, imaging 

gratitude. Telling Time by those who’ve gone before. It would be fine to find 

myself mentioned, in an offhand whisper, late at night, by the side of the bed, out 

of the mouth of someone kneeling, quietly, unoverheard, on the lips of some 

lovely grandchild, a Layla, say, & cared for by, at intimate & distant coordinates.