In bars, on street corners, along
green hill campuses, in dark
corners beneath
office towers, on trains, beside
zoos, buried deep
below backyards, above a murder
of crows, in the palm
of her hand.

Listening to Dr. Dog on the Radio

What if
you never had a broken
heart—no, wait,
I mean bone. What if?

And no stitches
after the wisdom
teeth were pulled. But
back to the heart. Take

care not to break
your soul—those of you
who know
where to find yours.

November 22, 1963: Where Were You?

Fifty years. Before
my time—barely. I was born

into a country
in mourning. Would never

know an innocence
once claimed. Never

know a world without
that eternal flame. Would never

hear that voice, that particular brand
of Boston accent live.

Sixteen grief-stained days
shy of being able to say:

“I was there.”

In Forgetful Snow

Say something
out of bounds. Whisper
prose. Forget
how many lines
are leftover. Make some
more in the cold
night air. February
isn’t as cruel
as April, is it, Mr. Eliot?


She believes in triangles—
would rather not
triangulate. Hates crowds,

loves New York. Sees
no contradiction. The third
sister balances

textures with the sound
of a quarter moon
hitting the February sky

over Loring Park. What lies between
Minnesota and New England

are all the stories
she has left
to tell.

Wadsworth Falls, CT

Where was she
when they were giving
out licenses? Which daydream
distracted her
from motorized
vehicles? Which water

fall, where did
the trail go? Sitting beneath

one with him naked
decades ago, she didn’t
really care. Pistol
factories, textile mills, flume
or sluiceway is all that remains.
As if she could return.