#randall mann

by Randall Mann

how softly one is seduced by whispers. Take notice, when leafing through, say, a Calvino novel, of all of the pages gone blank

(this is the end of letters); the crawled-out, like ants, on the windowsill: feel the corpses hardened.

In the distance, the Golden Gate—vultures riding a thermal in the distance. The Golden Gate vultures riding a thermal: on the windowsill, feel the corpses, hardened,

of letters, the crawled-out like ants. This is the end. Of all of the pages gone blank,

BREAKFAST WITH THOM GUNN

in memory, 1929-2004 We choose a cheap hotel because they're serving drinks. We drink. I hear him tell a tale or two: he thinks that so-and-so's a sleaze; and then there was the time that Milosz phoned, oh please. Another gin with lime? I want to say that once, I saw him dressed in leather, leaning on a fence inside a bar. Rather, walking to the N, I gush about his books; he gives his change to men who've lost their homes and looks: how like him, I've been told. Our day together done, I hug him in the cold. And then the train is gone.