Night Poems

Saint Mark’s to Saint Ann’s

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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.

What They Call Normal

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Sweeping in the nude (not
naked) has other implications
laid over hardwood. Who 

gets to say when
a book’s a book isn’t
my question. Beneath 

the chaise, the curvature
becomes pronounced. I may
be too modest to chase it out.

Geophagy

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Watching the time drag
itself through the driest
dirt, she wants to kneel
into it and scoop 

handfuls into her gaping
mouth, wants to swallow expectations 

whole. Then spit them out.
She knows she can’t
have it both ways.

From the Ground Up (Day 2,744)

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Balcony scars on the side
of a house haunt
us—another Verona,
another serenade, another exit 

into perfect darkness.
A guitar pick moon
offers us the night. We take it
string by wave by bits 

of breath easing close.

Post Away Girl

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So afraid
of needles, she refuses 

the vaccine that might protect her
from the thing 

she fears
(and desires) most. 

She’s still willing
to risk the damage 

from a crash
so beautifully choreographed 

and strummed. Still
believes in Coleridge 

and his “willing suspension

of disbelief.”

Lyn-Lake

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Going it alone for so long,
she forgets how
to talk to others
after dark. Black hollow platform 

shoes and a red dress. Her pocket pal—
a thin blank 

book without lines—keeps her
company while she waits
for her light to change.

No Sleep till Brooklyn

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What a privilege to be
in a booth by herself. What a message 

to send in a bottle
filled with air. What a color 

to believe in
when the photo turns 

out dark. What eyes
to feel upon her. What a shock 

to see boxers on a large screen
TV behind the bar. What 

a relief not to be teetering
on the edge 

of a wooden floor. What a sound
her heart makes 

when she recognizes how long
it’s been since she needed 

to identify the name of a cocktail—ingredients
weighing her down 

cellar steps to irrelevance.

Tags East

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She’s going to repeat
herself. Another third
rail near miss, search

for a boat to catch
before it goes
beneath that bridge. Guardian

angels smirk
behind glass block. A white
fire truck unhooked and parked

at the curb. Self-plagiarize
enough, and slate won’t hold
sleep walkers in

suspension

over the riverbed.
To know what will
requires more

encounters with trap doors
than she’s willing to risk—no
matter how many

times she gets that urge.

No Access

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A different cast
of characters, the chain
of cause and effect drapes
across the same

forbidden entrance. She burns
through them too intensely
on an old diesel train
passing through towns

named after men
she knew for a night
or two on the way
to more. She never got off

the rails long enough
to recognize how she was using
up this allotment
just as she used up

all her drink tickets
half a lifetime
too soon. Now she never gets off
at all. Better to listen

to that rhythmic chug and roll
from inside this coach class car.

In the Audience with Eyes Closed

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Speaking in captions, she drinks
nostalgia from a red rock 

glass. It tastes almost
sour—sweet kicked in 

the jaw with a steel
toed boot firmly encasing 

the foot of a man
she used to know. In biblical stories, 

the knowing
would be absolute. Once two 

bodies collide and become
affixed—nothing 

with two hands can pull 

apart the memory of their imprints. 

But outside official belief, she lays with grace
in a black striped shirt. Forgotten 

or not, she won’t get
drunk from a cocktail tonight.