What follows me has found me,
here, in my own house.

They rise up so beautifully some nights,
opening like a bright fan of pain—
and what is left of her voice is a darkness

I love how love enables all those good-
not-great minds to decide we don’t get it.

You will come out of me, you know, then.
The years of hovering around you, I hope
benignly, afraid that you will learn my fear,

The French can lie, and yet again can lie;
they lie standing or sitting, if so required.

Cast out from work’s absorbing converse
         I watch as men and women
         hurry toward home, each other,

Like certain histories, this painting rewards
the glance away, as the astronomer’s gaze
can focus by falling sideways from light