The empty mills brood on the river, grim 
with boarded doors and blackened eyes as bleak 
as those of men who might have tales to spin 

That rusting water tower collapsing
on its ruin was the movie theater
where you sat in smoky consternation

The money, he asks, haven’t you
thought about the money?
We’re feeding her

Best of all things are the lights in the sky
but what I am seeking is sleep.
Or not sleep exactly,

You think of moving the captured submarine 
to a permanent berth alongside the museum
in your city. A retired engineer who spent

I have not forgotten, neighbor,
our red brick rowhouse, tiny and quiet
with the window always cracked open
even in winter

My mother built a screened-in porch
with a clear view of the west
just so she could sit in a glider

Then I was younger and between towns
where people waited for me to sell them
either Styrofoam cups or glass figurines,

The fine meat of its back
was opened, the steel flourished
with such quickness and artistry

I can answer only to Adonis—
call me that, and you'll find I'm easily
managed. Some time ago, I was promised