If I could
print you
a new hand

to hold
mine, I would
still walk alone

up this hill. You would
rescue a baby
squirrel falling

from bare branches,
and the day
would become salvage.



From the street,
she sees a hammock affixed
to some bare
elms in a city

park. A how to live
in urban green before
it greens. Bad
poetry never makes good

architecture. Good
architecture makes good

poetry if
the intentional flaw

doesn’t compromise
the structure. She wonders
how tight
those knots are tied.

Reading Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaids Singing in a Bar

In Lagos, Portugal.
She thought she was so

adult to be
drinking alone

with Ms. Sarton
still alive in a foreign country.

28 years ago
this August, she hasn’t been

back. No longer goes
to bars with or without

May. There was a bartender
in that story—but not this poem.