A straight shooter, she
imagines everything becomes visible
on her face. Imagines she casts 

no shadow, is exposed
even when it rains. 


into those blind spots go
whole narratives unfolding
with characters she didn’t invent 

roaming places she’s afraid
to step into—transparencies 

crumpled and torn, dark
rooms boarded up.

Saint Mark’s to Saint Ann’s

I am the impulse
to give
you that book. I am
the melancholy 

stirring within
as I study a 19th-century
façade that’s lost
its building 

on East 12th. I am the joy
of hearing a childhood
friend’s laughter
still ring the same 

in my ears pressed
against sea shells
we picked up
on our way to discovering 

that one perfectly rubbed
piece of sea glass. I am
the desire to walk

up and down city 

sidewalks at home
and the resignation
that these are visitor 

steps. Here I am
all shadow over stones
ghosted away
and ready to reappear.