“Where is he—you know, the . . . one?”
my ninety-year-old friend asked
and I knew that she meant her son—

The door. If you pull it it’s heavy; if you
push it it’s hard. 

Bands of distracted emotions snap getting
wider as daytime colors sink and roll on their
sides. 

Such a flow of language!

She is a neighbor too,
and I am getting there

It’s a socket—I don’t know how,
but you soon learn to count millions into that province

To no longer perform in broad daylight,
the apple's a radish for it,
the winter chill a living thing.

I wonder if they’ve really caught the scent,
which is a poor memory in our Symbolist ears

My friends, before we wheel
out the most staggering invention of all time

These are the same stairs, unnoticed, essential,
submerged in shadow bath; and that is the same