Face

Windows in an exposed brick wall leave her
suspicious. Was there another
floor in here once? Guessing about before
is her new purpose.

And she believes
in ghosts and sprites and even a mermaid
that might swim beneath floor boards
of an old fish-packing plant on the end

of a wharf. Those photos
mounted on its façade are real.
Eva, Mary, Bea, Frances—you are

real. And Almeda, your image
destroyed by storms crashing
into the harbor, you are beyond.

A Mob

Or, sea of meerkats
in the middle

of Times Square. No,
scratch that. Lawn

chairs floating
over a dying lake. Sentries

fold into their own
whispers. Who

will protect
the walkers from
the strollers from
those other

peripatetic clans? I’ve been here
before. Or, maybe not. December

morning fog dampens
and loosens my hold
on some bad lines

from a mediocre movie.
The title has already drifted off.

Another Boat in a Fog May Not Be Lonely

The corner where two
windows meet. The view
from a dark room
onto a fog-dampened
night. Stories

dissolve when they hit
pavement, or never get exposed
to atmosphere at all. It stings
to be so poised
to burst forth

in a voice soft
and deep, but to be
the one holding back
exquisite blackness
with a candle flame

that laps up
fear and air
till someone’s lover

returns. A woman’s true
laughter will float on
still water

to break through
soot and other romantic
toxins falling out.