Like a flock of dispossessed in a city of converts, we found our way to the Shamrock where the bikers congregated to play pool.
What happened to the city that made us promises, promises we had the luxury to believe or not?Night caved its streets,
Why I thought I needed to rent a third-floor attic.Why I thought one mattress on the floor, a desk, a vanity
That one smelled like a Bradford pear you said.
St. Stephen’s Day: home unsettled, a rupture, and here the ruched branch has turned itself outward,
its soft, bright innards held up along the path. At first, a golden
Before I leave for good, I lift the pie server a final time, drop the receipt facedown next to the lemon blueberry slice, then my apron in the parking lot
On a narrow plinth in the corner of the gallery, a stone portrait:a man, his mouth unlipped
Women used to wean their babiesBy painting their breasts black.Hurricane clouds are black.The Earth is weaning us.
Like heat he seeks them, my son, thirsting to learn those
he don’t know are his dead— some with his name
