what, Ulysses

Knickerbocker

Suppose a man steps out of the fog
to meet us. And suppose he is plastered
from head to toe with blank checks, having
just left his deathbed, & it’s not so bad—the
paper trail is brilliant & it smells like the New
York Stock Exchange. And let that man
give fair warning under a buttonwood tree
& broker for us the underworld. And if
all he shares is traded, let the man
in his essence be a number, & if a number
a sign, & if a sign, let him be heeded. But
suppose the man leaves one foot in the grave
& reaches out to us not with a foghorn
but a what if.

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