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.
The stars begin to turn clockwise, freeing us of all consequences.
I drag my sheets as Earth drags her tangled mess of tides.
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
The world beyond the windows slowly tips forward into spring.
The canary-yellow sweater she knit while pregnant with me thawed first.
There’s something I saw at the race meeting I can’t figure out.
We could hear the parade three blocks before it arrived at our corner.
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.
It’s life that is hard: sleeping, eating, loving, and dying are easy.
A heart takes precautions, withholds warmth, but it’s mistaken.
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.
You linger in the dimming aftermath, grayer and fainter than a breath.
Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.
I want to sleep in a bed next to a man who won’t dream of me all night.
Two surgeons vaulted over a counter to hold open my incisions.
I make a point of smelling the lilac every day that first week in May.