Earlier Poems by Franz Wright

The Meeting
    I happened to be in a strange city
drinking.
One of those dives where you enter
and just pull the covers over your head;
where the gentleman sitting five inches away
has lately returned from his mission in space
in the one coeducational toilet stall
existing on the premises,
and will continue to sit there forever, nodding
and peering down into his shot glass
like a man struggling to keep awake over a bombsight;
and the aged transsexual
whore who never got around
to the final operation in his youth
seems to be pursing her lips
in your direction, demurely, down bar.
One of those places with windows
the color of your glasses—
a fact which in no way compels you
to remove them. Nobody cares
about your eyes: they'll go on serving you
as long as you can talk,
as long as you can still pronounce
your drink by name and are tactful
enough not to fall off your stool
or call anyone's attention
to the fetus in the vodka bottle
to the left of the vast Bartender's
telepathic, “Another?”
It was then you walked past,
outside the window, unhindered
by the event's complete impossibility.
This kind of thing's happened to everyone.
No? Never mind, then:
I will describe it.
At whichever ground zero
you've found yourself waiting, waiting,
there is one and only one person
whose sudden dumbfounding appearance
could, if not exactly save you,
afford you some respite
from the slightly green outpatient
you're supposed to be keeping an eye on there
behind the beverages in the mirror, the one
whose job is watching you …
Then she walks by.
Though the instant this transpires
you know it's already too late,
she's vanished right back again
into one of those infinite places
where you are not. And it's pointless
to run to the door, tear it open and scream
her name into the freezing wind:
it doesn't stand a chance
of being heard above
the amused roar of the sky's numberless sports fans.
No—you need a strategy.
Needless to say, this calls for a drink or ten.
Now this individual, her special haunts:
there is still a very slight chance
they are all in your mind, that grim city
that's changed somewhat since you've been here
attending your dark little party.
And God only knows what's happened to the one
outside the door, a place
you have never really been to
and one where you never intended
to do a lot of sightseeing.
You are a peaceful man.
But what can you do—time's passing faster,
and your loneliness is ruined anyway.
You down your shot of fear and hit the street.

Late Late Show
    Undressing, after working all night, the last thing I see is the room
    in the house next door.
    At four in the morning, a dark room
    filled with that flickering blue
    so familiar, almost maternal if you were born
    in my generation: this light
    so intimate, reassuring you that the world is still there
    filled with friendly and beautiful people, people who would like to give you helpful products—
    adoring families— funny Nazis …
    Undressing, the last thing I will see.

Heroin
    And now it's gone
I'll wait
for time to come
and tuck me in
    a little white blank
envelope,
    and mail me
on this pretty wind-lights
    midnight:
I am safe
    here in the darkness,
the gloating
    vampire
of myself,
    waiting for the sudden light
to open, its enormous hand
    to sort me from the others
and raise me up
    and finding me spotless, devoid of destination or origin,
    transport me
to the painless fire
of permanent, oblivious
invisibility.

Rorschach Test
    To tell you the truth I'd have thought it had gone out of use long ago, there is something so nineteenth century about it,
    with its absurd reverse Puritanism.
    Can withdrawal from reality or interpersonal commitment be gauged by uneasiness at being summoned to a small closed room to discuss ambiguously sexual material with a total stranger?
    Alone in the presence of the grave examiner, it soon becomes clear that, short of strangling yourself, you are going to have to find a way of suppressing the snickers of a ten-year-old sex fiend, and