Someone’s placed a photo
of a boat on the side
of a train. There are buses
with bicycle racks
on their grilles, people walking off 

planes onto moving
sidewalks. And there’s the pigeon foot
I discover on a curb
a mile from home. It smells 

like nothing, but there’s
rot in the air, could be
a dead squirrel, could be dead
leaves. If you can smell my decay,
will you let me 

know?  I can never
tell how I get translated—never realized
you could tell 

there was alcohol on my breath
when I kissed you good-night.