It isn’t May-like, this impure air
which darkens the foreigners’ dark
garden still more, then dazzles it

I saw my name in print the other day
with 1932 and then a blank
and knew that even now some grassy bank

in the black hood, 
come! Pierce 
my heart

Consider the white space
between words on a page, not just

In the end we are no more than our own stories: 
mine a few brief passages in the Book, 
no further trace of plot or dialogue. 

I am haunted by the names
of foreign places: Lvov and its bells;
Galway with its shimmer of green;

Set in the silence of pure perspective,
the ideal city has no people in it,
only buildings. On these streets Order rules

You must rock your pain in your arms
until it’s asleep, then leave it
in a darkened room

She’s given up sex.
She’s given up travel.
She’s given up the rush

On a day of windy transition, one season to the next,
you spoke of helping your mother close her house,
of the choices you had to make—what to discard,