John Ashbery is understood to have passed
in a way of his own, en route to one
of the emblematic neckery shops he favors.
He is said to have been about to
exchange a flowery crepe for a chaster ice-
blue satin number, or to telephone the folks
at Sodus, New York, near the fire-gray
water of Lake Ontario, reputedly his
favorite lake. When he comes back to us
we will advance in a chorus chanting:
“Thank you John Ashbery for coming to
see us so we see you in new clothes.
We always have loved you and admired your ties.”
That is how we feel about John Ashbery.
Here he comes now. I will thank him personally for
“the salacious paperbound books and girlie magazines.”

Preparation is the art of leaving lines in:
before you can make that crane you must
invert the valley, low right to high left.
Then you must base the bird, pulling
inside out, outside to middle, and up.
Flip. Repeat. Crease those legs.
Reverse the fold. Define her neck,
define her tail, run the bone knife flat.
Dip each wing down and pull them
apart, flattening her back. If she means
to stay by your dinner plate, press your
mouth to that belly and push the air in.
If she means to fly, grip her head and tail,
pull so she flaps in the sky of your palm.
If she’s good luck, thread a sharp needle
and hang her with her thousand sisters.
When she laughs it is only a crab scuttling
the length of that gullet. When she cries
it is only the weeping of rice against stone.