We take our solace, in a time of malaise and mourning, in the close-at-hand.
Complicity can crease the tongue back on itself like an origami dog.
I am tamping down the earth with the flat side of a blade I am burying you
She wondered if tomorrow would fill her with so strange a stirring.
Lufthansa lifts off under me. The set sun disinters, a fanned cinder.
I drag my sheets as Earth drags her tangled mess of tides.
The stars begin to turn clockwise, freeing us of all consequences.
Suddenly two would dart and clasp one another belly to belly.
This is the stupid math of loving another human being.
Out there, my father captains a boat tour below the Cliffs of Moher
We cannot leave it to the forces to rub out the color of the world.
The world beyond the windows slowly tips forward into spring.
The canary-yellow sweater she knit while pregnant with me thawed first.
My stepfather has gone out with a blanket to place over a doe’s body.
There’s something I saw at the race meeting I can’t figure out.
Come live with me. We could plant acorns in each other’s mouths.
I decide it’s as good a place as any to stop, pant & smell the roses—
All the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring.
We could hear the parade three blocks before it arrived at our corner.
She’s coming back, her arms full of the flowers I gave her once a year.
Anchored off Biscayne Bay my father’s wooden skiff swings easy.
She’s not the same, her body more naked in its aging, its disorder.
I see the garden far away in itself reflected in the polished spade.
It’s life that is hard: sleeping, eating, loving, and dying are easy.
A heart takes precautions, withholds warmth, but it’s mistaken.
She does not know within a decade she will unload a slug into her mouth.
On the other side of Paris an exhibit depicts their home, which is nowhere.
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens her first rose
I ought to haul out this junk I called winter and lose it somewhere.
The day holds a cup of milk and sits on the couch, legs tucked up.