of his voice and brilliant
wisecracks out my door, down
the back stairs, to the alley

dumpster. Done. I lean
these old wooden idols against the iron
base on wheels. I believe

in the potential to recycle
everything—the divers will come
out tonight. I wear this stiffness

as a badge of endurance. You
threw out mine almost as soon

as you heard it
in an age before reuse.

clock on the corner. Welcome
back diamond-shaped
laughter without a live

audience. The flowers
you ordered for your mother
should arrive in time

to whisper one more welcome
before walking through
another open door.

to write. Poems
are tallies in a growing series
of figure eights. Notches

in the leg
of a wooden desk—

here’s where
it gets locked

in. Little deaths
and tremendous sighs

of relief
when another one clicks.

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.

the ‘70s. She can’t hear Johnny
Nash sing “I Can See Clearly Now”

from an AM radio. Nothing
good can come from trying
to go back there. In a dream,
she is driving to Texas
on interstates in the dark
behind her sister and brother-in-law

till she remembers:
she doesn’t drive.

her—the way I give it
away with my eyes. You’ll know
my heart by how

I hold my mouth. All the black
(and red into pink)
won’t shield me

from exposing
the truth on the street.

up. Someone says
they’re hung
over. I don’t believe
him. Suddenly they show

their heads, then legs,
then crawl away. End
of scene—onto that subway
I only see

in dreams. Couldn’t recognize
who was riding
with me this time.
Could have been you.

is played out,
even a simple metaphor

can’t be
expressed. Nothing implied. All

images captured
must remain sealed

inside a jar
draped in red linen. Even fresh

rain transforming
into snow won’t force a leak.