know. Have checked out
for five all but one
year of my life

in this town. A red
Q on this book
cover is no longer

a question. Quality days
begin to stack up
against an invisible wall. Collections

have their place. I don’t
miss the smoke.

over through early morning fog.
Routine commuting becomes heightened
by the transcendent
moments before
the marathon begins

on the Verrazano
Narrows Bridge. By a skyline
permanently scarred, by a keel
built with steel
from collapsed towers, by film

and TV footage of our favorite
characters crossing one way
or the other. Sometimes someone
who’s had too much
winds up where he started

without getting closer
to home. Color

declares, or hides, or widens
the channel for multiple
interpretations. Always the same
orange, always the same
distance either way.

to design the perfect
compass for indoor air? Now that I know

my way around up there after two
decades, I will not give

them up. A hybrid
walk might spread in all directions

on all levels—inside and out.

from the ceiling
inside a giant
library. Her services

are no longer needed. Justice
will prevail
or fail without her. It’s January—

other topics
can be scarce.

of wheatgrass embedded
in translucent partitions

for accent. An ocean
spilling forth on all sides

gets pulled inside
out to become a Midwestern

lake not frozen enough
to hold those images

of ice fishers under
glass. You shake

yourself awake
to make up

what you won’t remember
one hour into it.

what gets made
up before dawn closer to the Mississippi
than any hint of salt. Pastels
on sleeves—watercolors in the sky—pollution

at dusk—can’t have a January
thaw without a frozen
plain. A surreal ocean
comes to mind.

a new car with music seeping through
its air vents. It takes me

through a different artery in the maze. Roots grow
to the first floor becomes a pink lit

W Hotel lobby. A vintage Foshay Tower
elevator car secures

me to the 27th floor. Spectacular view—yes. Cocktails—
yes. Eleven dollar nuts

and nothing else for the likes of me. I could ask
for an espresso but

this is enough discovery for one civil
twilight. Outside’s halo holds

only a spit of pink
inside heliotrope.

is what I do
when singed mystery
holds no appeal. What about a snake

or hawk? Could be human
error—and into its portal

the soul just might come into view.
If only I didn’t blink it away.

into darkness faster than my fingers
can touch the right digits

for relief. To open this book
of scents written by a left

hand to a stranger is exposure
I might not survive. To hide

the ink stains of impressionistic
thought is to remain in a corner

that might not be found
by a flashlight search and repair.