of asphalt—bypasses and freeways—and a venomous, blood-orange dusk above it all.

I remember the eerie, flickering pall
cast up from the instrument panel onto his face,

I followed her gaze past rooftops of tin, fired-clay
and tar, to the lake's far sleights of vision--its gulls
blown sideways and backwards in flight, its islands floating

Beyond the lip readers, between
enclosures, we have our gangster act

I could go out like that,
sucked to a whisper like the midtown
tax building explosively leveled

Where is her poplar cane? Where is the victory
of 1918? Where is the flame
of vengeance in her clouded eye?

She looked like milk.
She smelled
like vines curled with fruit.

while the palms touch and digits suggestively link
so movement of the hands of each
does occur

While I wait I copy the smallest details,
how experts supposed a violent end, this corpse
an ill-fated soldier. A musketball to the leg. Another

Years have passed since you were in my city—
our city, then-and certain aspects of a certain day
remain with me like film in a goblet after wine.