No wonder the Antwerp teashops
refuse him—except with a heel of bread
through the back door. Held out

When we climbed the black stone,
I was already in love
with your feet. I hadn’t

I read about the man who stood
50 years after the battle and saw
the field of human skeletons.

I have spent 30 years trying not to write
this poem.

The truth is dark under your eyelids.
What are you going to do about it?
The birds are silent; there’s no one to ask.

Neon at sundown, early shadows
Going to meet the one and true darkness.
Avenue where I was a child in a shoe box,

This couple strolling arm in arm
Must be figments of someone’s revery.
They stop often to linger over a kiss,

The cliffs on this heart-
land lake terrorize me.
Eroding and standing

Hail the greasy automatons,    each circuit of hunger
traced on linoleum—    toward dishwater and marinara
and back under the radiator.    A commute from airless blind

This is the 31st time I’ve been here,
he says, leaning on a walker.
Even though he’s sitting next to me