errol miller
Superstar
“Her boulevards led nowhere . . .”
Alice Moser Claudel
A gentleman on East 57th Street
an American designer of fine white linen
he invested in everything, particularly explanation
he wanted to sheer joy of craft and style
he wanted nonessential window-dressing
he wanted Mama and red wine and writing paper
and later, someone to tell him he was dead
an AP release ended his immediate gratification
that stunning man joined up with a tragic
honeymoon hand, down to the Bowery
and the Left Bank of Forever, he took
the Ferry to Cape Cod, he visited
Oxford’s creme-colored stucco square
he rowed out to meet the only god he ever knew
offering a million dollars for safe passage
to anywhere, that folio of change
overtaking him, that decorative
milltown costume we shall all wear
affixed to ear and neatly worked into
the architectural framework of imagination.