of the lowercase, of indian pipes,
a locket of thumbnail photographs
that opens across the room,

Our plane has already been de-iced
but sleet comes over the wings again like a coating of dust
on the wide leaves of a rubber plant—

The tenderness in music
brings back moments I've shared
with some who are as I am,

I thought I knew something
about loneliness, but I was wrong.
I'd never been that far east before,

Chalice in the right hand. Bleached
handkerchief in the left. Still there are those
who never touch the lip. Dippers we call them, their wafers

It surprises me how quickly I can conjure
You before me, more familiar to myself
Than my own mirrored face. You sit

While Frenchmen kissed, I gave man wings.
Reportedly I dreamed of birds. The hills along the post road
once lined the floor of a vast inland sea; behind the foundry,

He's the camera, I'm the pose. In this photograph I am
happy.
                                •

We offer each other a dark
brew. But we must drink.
A seduction is the setting up

Never receives visitors, only inhabitants.
Outside, icicles thaw from the eaves in winter,
And even with its windows painted shut,