But you think

       (an Ashbery Erasure poem)

you keep up with them
conscience and crowd

a bell-jar
wiped clean with suffering

a woman comes quietly
to the glass
transformed into static

you are a voyeur, too
a voyeur trying to kill

the mind, drifting away,
faintly out of tune

no scars
we had the reward of shining

eyes full of cataclysm
a landscape that matters

maybe she will come along
mean
an irritation

her weather is little more
than a moan