On the tarp was a sketch of the world
done up in blue
where the water was, and green

The frame of the house he lived in
supplied the wood for the gallows.
The floors where he walked were folded

Through your love words became clear,
were born again with a strange vigour,
like flat lines transformed through prayer,

Hermione, Helen, Hilda, I have been,
my pencil picking from inside a weighted
statue, or tree, my skin stiffened, mated

Before you turn your anger against a friend,
           Be circumspect, recite the alphabet—
                 Backwards, if you must.

And what if now I told you this, let’s say,
By telephone. Would you imagine me
Talking to myself in an empty room,

The years, the miles out and back are run through us
      as we sit here.

is a bowl of stars,
not the sunset’s wussy Pink Lady
hours ago, before a solitary dinner—

   Through the peephole he could see a boy
Playing patience on the huge crimson sofa.
    There was the turkey, the second-best

Hollow as promises, their petals blasted,
Their bristled leaves now paned by parasites, 
Their huge, black catacombs all drooping