What I was doing was obvious.

When isolation and the fear of death

got out of hand, play-pieces

from culture filled

my salon/playroom.

(It’s more like Go than chess:

there are a lot of pieces.)

When I felt more mellow, I trotted out

the prophetic voice, trying to build

community from liberal depression.

I specialized in narrative, which critics loathe,

fighting the temptation

to be a great aphorist. My

emotions yellowed in the files

of ancient analytic styles,

and what I didn’t say was said by others:

Of these cities will remain

only the wind that blew through them.