Have the camera blur on his face when he comes back.
Do not be x-acto knife literal.
He makes reference to that stairway right there,
          but there’s no point of reference, nothing against
          which to put a person.
Use the weird gas lights from the rooftop bar—this part
          of Brooklyn always reminds him of Greece.
Have him in glasses. He should appear
          village art, grosgrain,
          no matting, sunfaded, a replica.
Put the actress in my heels, demi-pointe;
          have her walk the sidewalks of ice.
She’ll ask with eyes down, her birdcage
          fascinator clipped.
She loves the man
who clears his throat
          like the sea in Beowulf.
Into the neck of the gramophone,
          she sputters housewife potency.
Have her feel like she is pushing up a bay from under.
Have her bow, and have NY pet her head.
As if it’s not enough to be alive,
          she wants to be guided down a staircase.
The ring of bad news is in the outline of the tree branches.
Make up an excuse for them to talk.
Factor in the keyhole of the bedroom door. Factor in they have no key.