a noisy street
lamp invades her
private property
she has none
who owns the sand
she lets slip
between her toes
must own
the shells
he collects
in a shoe box
where she used to store
those letters

her memory
is too much
with her
another power
given to the rip current
his, shards
of sea glass gems
in amber ruby cobalt
blue aurora borealis
rose swooning
above the horizon

an offing
that can’t be reached
where the road runs
under then beside itself
to spill over the pier

she’s done it before
who says they can’t touch
those lines as they vanish
doesn’t know
what it means
to be a wave

for Lester

He can’t put me back
where he found me.
He’s been dead nearly
five years. Living

above the cobbler’s
shop on Lake
Street—those were the best
days of his life.

His brother says.
I agree. Will never know
for certain. He stopped
skating outside on bitter

Minnesota winter nights
with his best friend
when he was 16. 32 more
years to lose track of

without a hockey stick.
In cardboard boxes,
all those records
he didn’t listen to

in his final days. From a distant
radio, I hear Tom Waits
growl “Downtown Train.”
We took one of those

when he came to
the big city

before he moved me
to the middle.

He didn’t get to see
a rat till the last night.
He just wanted
a glimpse. A bit part
In his own life.

Young designers drink beer
in outdoor cafes
overlooking parks. I pass

by one and wonder how
easy it would be
to declare

you now
under 40, now with a two-day,
two-night shadow

of beard and ungroomed stache.
Now with
impossibly narrow hips

and twinkle in blue eyes
even you don’t realize
the danger in. The joke’s on

It’s only a matter
of time before
I get to you. Before

I wrap you
inside my lyric
web where rainwater runs

salty before
sweet. Where praying
mantis myths break

apart as cleanly
as last century love
letters written on

perforated sheets—
unruled. Unruly
and close, another summer

night could go by
without stating
the obvious out loud

to a full moon—more low
hanging fruit
to resist. They say

it’s like riding
a bicycle. Mine has
had no air

in the tires
for a decade.
I keep it

U-locked in
the cellar just in case.
Only a matter

of time. I keep
thieves off the trail
that leads to the real

jewels, booty, swag.

What is there
left to protect?
Only a matter

of time
and distance. I am

the East Coast
Midwestern girl
who tears herself

in two
waiting for you

============ no ===
more ==== black ============== out

Erasure—the last two
lines are not ready.
I’m not ready

to give them—
myself—you—away.

Wakes him
to flashbacks. All that

water he wouldn’t
swim in: the length

of the Mississippi,
the Hudson flowing

both ways—half estuary,
half river. The East

River. Who would dare? Who
sings that song?

It’s rhetorical. It’s all
muffled underwater.