The varnished, waxed, mahogany veneer of the table-top
Where he sat, unable to write truthfully of what truth was,
Shone back at him, uninvitingly showing only his own

Reflected horribly in the grand piano,
the sky is offered up as your accompanist.
You pick out a melody with one hand,

The first Tuesday in this warm November
brushes Long Island in a last caress
before winter repels our communities

The fish circle the seas a thousand times
a day, never diverging from the endless
path of blue opening up before them. 

Visiting them, we slow down, straighten up,
as if we were approaching an open coffin
or rows of newborns behind the hospital glass.

Bending over the map on the floor
that unfolds like a rare carpet
we trace our trip with warm, stumbling fingers.

The house is humming with many lives today.
Too drowsy even for a slice of apple
or her own glass of wine, she prepares

Beginning as usual in the dark
well of an expensive late-night taxi,
you recall this scene; your father rushes

talked to my father again a dream he seemed happy
perhaps a little older than the last time       told me
he had discovered something called “le jazz hot” 

inside my mother
i make a little fist
& then i punch her