Sometimes, on evenings like this, my mother will speak of Tom Scott,
going down to a place inside her beyond the river's high reach,
to a place where grief has no pallbearer except the river;

They are so busy and self-involved as I hear them muttering in the distance
that they strike me sometimes as sheer marvels:
the dishwasher filling its huge blue gullet—a cluck from the timer,

His eyes dart through a physical-asset
inventory; he asks, was I wondering,
as he gestures to the contents of his cart, 

The sun flung out at the foot of the tree
A perfect shadow on snow: we found that we
Were suddenly walking through this replica,

Men kissing, men kissing men in a movie,
women kissing, kissing women in the next,
then men kissing women, then women, men,

Of course,all day long it’s Gilgamesh wants
this, Gilgamesh wants that, and we scatter
through the city, beating ploughshares into

Consider 
        the ink-charged brush
on Wang Wei’s scroll, how the stroke that will mean tree

panels        doors        niches        garlands        keystones
gargoyles        columns        cornices        turrets        trees
chimneys        palimpsests         lamp posts         lace         gates

Miranda de la Rosa sang the blues
in crystal ball gowns
held his trophies high because

I have held the man in my mouth
all day, trying to find a place
to bury him, dig him up later.