Cycloid

Piano is levitas;
Kahn is gravitas.
We all play roulette
sometimes without knowing it. Feudal

play is
a chain mail wall
that responds
to touch. The curve

traced by a point
on the rim
of a wheel
as it rolls along

a straight line
without slipping. Slipping
is not required. When
does a slip become

a relapse? You are the most
imperfect auditorium
absorbing and reflecting
the sound of my mind

as it hovers over deep sleep.
In the left margin,
fish scales climb
or descend.

When you write
yourself out
of the story, it becomes futile
to try to sneak back in. The acoustics

in the church
where we held my father’s funeral
captured too much
bounce and echo. No one

understood a word
we were saying. Is
an omniscient narrator
a better bouncer

than an intrusive one?
Who is more reliable?
What about the polyphonic?
I remember

writing the Ecstatic
Uptown Chronicles
in fragments with you
over drinks (and drugs)

one winter. The first
one. I was lost. I was found.
I was a wretch—so were you.
It was

exquisite—
that corpse
of a song
we couldn’t resuscitate.

Pulling glass
from his skull,
he stands
a chance

of relocating
his compass
without
a GPS.

I am
so invisible
I am
free to

If voices are hereditary,
I sing like
the dead.
The first

bridge I fell
in love with
was over
troubled water.

No more art
in the schools,
we make it here
from glitter and bat shit. Crazy

how guano
fertilizes the most
unlikely plots.
A chicken shits

on a construction paper
bingo board. You pin it
to the wall
next to the velvet

painting of a cowboy
and call it

No time to fix
errant capitalization.
I remember
first encountering

Frank Lloyd Wright
while dancing
on that bridge
over troubled water.

Architects may come
architects may

All the news
I need
is in the weather
report that is

fit to print. I am
the only living boy
in New York. I miss both—
the boy and the City.

She has one eye
looking due east,
the other northwest.
She says she can

sew him back together
if you want. Do you
want? We all want
to go

where there’s
no sound
some nights,
don’t we?

AA at AWP

you are my people

in this room
strangers all of you

relief in our eyes
in this room

for an hour
egos to be checked

at the door
name tags break

anonymity our
introductions don’t

no one’s reading them
in this room

cocktail parties
get going in the ones

on either side
we all have one of two

(or both) last names
beginning with “a”

our noms de bouteille

Open or Closed

Who will build
the hotel to house all
the souvenir

heroes stacked
against that cellar
door? That perfectly
framed cellar door. One more

time, and I could go
to heaven
where I wouldn’t care
about that pile

of bones and springs and fascia and tentacles
and fins and feet and hair and eyes.
The ones staring
past mine.

Unforeseen

Nets tangled and wet cast
shadows across a step street. An urban
torch flickers. Those narratives

get recorded large and
blotched on skyway
glass back in this middle

where below there’s tonight’s snow—
laced with diamonds—and a full moon
to guide me home.

Interrupters

Her biannual dream
of him gets cut short
by the cat’s early morning
demands. In it, a hotel

room filled with lost
friends bleeds over
a highway bike ride
she would never take

awake. A memory
of drinking vodka
martinis in a tree
under a warm Connecticut

night sky fades into forgetting
the last time she saw

his face: he’s married / everyone’s
married / generalizations
every one of them / a drive
back to New York City after

a Northampton, Mass., wedding /
a carload of drunken
college students at a drive-in
movie theater / a run

by the Long Lane School
( years before the suicide)
at midnight / making love
with a cast

on her foot in a Bronx studio /
those step streets come into play
again / he smoked, she didn’t,
he quit, she started, she quit, the air

they breathe no longer
shared / it’s no longer
early / time
to feed the cat

The Offing

Graffiti in the fresh
snow concealing a stone
wall. A window

that opens both ways—
from the top and
from the bottom.

The squirrel electrocuted
by a power line.
The lights that go out

temporarily. A freshly lit
match and a beeswax candle.

The ever so slightly
sweet honey scent

of your sweat
that lingers
after you’ve left the cabin.

[Untitled]

I wrote a song
for you
that has no title
I wrote a title
for me
that has no poem

slightly surreal

could be a park after
dark don’t go
inside the theater
has been closed
longer than the lifespan
of most dolphins

or meerkats
ever so slightly

surreal could be a weather condition
like ice
what’s the difference

between freezing
rain and hail
between a swarm

of locusts and helicopters
or bees

rising up
to get their revenge

Hermit Crab

The first adaptive
reusers before
it became trendy
to convert a shoe

box into,
well, anything

besides a shoe
box. A covered bridge
into an amphitheater
for Amish punk gigs. A Dairy
Queen into a library
that houses reels
of documentary films
and mysterious microfiche. Summer
mansion into convent into
venue for flying
garters and bouquets.
Do they still do that?

No vacancy
chain. Everyone’s hoteling

it now. Or, hot desking
without reservation.
Anything to protect the soft abdomen
from invaders.

Happy Birthday

A skyway morning
to you. Did you
invent it?

Not the skyway,
not the morning,
the night.

A silk green cigar
smoking jacket, striped
trousers cut off

below the knees, wind
chill kind of evening.
I would ask

your mother what time
of day you arrived
if I met her.

They have the same
name. Our mothers.
Remember that part.

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.