The poet is eminently available to us even as he eludes the pursuant Johnny Law. Having composed each poem in a different hotel, the poet invites the reader to check in and out of every room at once: quick fucks with bellhops, heavy knocking at the door, concierges who speak in gunshots, et cetera. All while the Fuzz surround every hotel, “vibrating on the balls / of their feet,” the flashing red and blue frozen in place. With interruption looming, the poet requests rooms that are lit by the blue—itself “the color / of looming”—and when the poet finally draws up the blinds, the view has never been so red.