No use for beds.
No use for cradles,
quilts, the sky blue
No use for the rug,
there on the hearth,
or the hearth,
made for warming.
I finger the Times
A hard coin where my heart used to be, flipping.
The empty shell of a shoe.
When the wind shifts
she walks toward me
little chip of winter
blue handed and not alive
when the wind shifts
each loss is every loss.
She brought a snow colored orchid
the next day she was--
(the orchid flowering on dispassionately)
a blank space
what's not here is
when the wind shifts,
the hand reaches for the phone
to (re)call her
the eye looks southward
expecting something solid in the sky
the mind keeps firing
along these phantom limbs
You must leave everything behind,
your body of water, your stream of breath,
something static in your hand like a wing.
It came and will come again:
flooding fifth avenue through Washington Square
and the strong swimmers will shed their day clothes
and climb into the fountains
and the ticketholders will find themselves unlucky
and the desk clerks will wave their flags
and the scaffolding will collapse
and the morning light will come down hard
on the sidewalk, nothing to break its fall.
Slowly I relearn this city, block by block--
first warm storm on Mercer street
where we loved a German film one winter
red rainstreaked sign, FANELLI CAFÉ
lifesized pink panther doll
atop the dumpster.
(Was it lucid?
was there soul ejection
in the in-between
some just emerging others just?)
How mournful the watertowers are, squatting
on the rooftops in their wiry corsets,
their slate-colored despair--
maybe I could learn something from them about containment,
the virtue of holding still.
Trick of perspective: I could tip
them over with a flick of my finger,
flooding streets, buildings, setting loose
one hushed rush--everything
free-floating down Broadway toward the harbor.
Where's the narrative in which this season makes sense?
The dead haven't left.
Even the walls of this room,
the futon and telephone--
thick with residue.
When the streets quiet
I feel the brush
of my mother's long hair, scent
of lemon balm--
what's not here
And we find ourselves wobbly
in our new loose-fitting skins.
Even in bed, we are relearning the lingo,
everything slightly askew, too fragile to take for granted.
All night, we turn toward each other, then away--
the ruckus of trucks
the manifold sirens, and something else,
the curtains, the clock, the shatter of wind,
and our own breathing, unmoored and swept along.