he wears a black turtleneck
inside a dark ratskeller
where tiny overhead lights flicker
when a train rolls through
the station above

she wears a black knit beanie
without an emblem
and a pair of leather
calf-length boots
no longer distressed

the day disappears
behind a swollen sunset
on the west bank
of the largest river
either has ever seen

she hides her fear
of wrinkles
behind an arrogant
head tilt
and wag of her left foot

she hums a tune
he recognizes
but can’t name
he buys her another
espresso

orders himself
a third shot
of Patrón

the wind outside
wolf-whistles
she wonders who
will open
the red door next

high heels are a memory
she brushes aside
with her sleeve
she mops the counter dry
with her desperation

he can’t see
the tattoo on her neck
hidden behind
ribbed cotton
and miles

that separate
him from her
real identity

everyone knows
the best ink
costs more
than Chanel No. 5
or blood

Now no one will be able to say
I’ll be the thimble.

Wish I could have been
the rocking horse or the lantern.

Who really wants to be an old shoe?
Everyone loves the Scottie dog.

And the race car
and the top hat.

For me so much depends upon
that silver wheelbarrow.

A nouveau sack of money? Some tokens need to be retired before they pass Go.

It took long enough
to add the cat.

Rejecting the diamond ring, robot,
and helicopter makes sense.

But the guitar—
why the hell not?

she’ll never be
what she won’t eat
she’ll never be
a piece of meat
on display again

not a poet
turning beet
red or blood orange
from the flawed flow
of the second stanza

she’ll never be
a string bean
or pear-shaped

she was a fish
but no more
little water for her

refuses to lounge
on a half shell
or fly away home
preserved no longer
fermented

she wants to collapse
in a field
dig a hole
where she can bury
her limbs and heart

before it’s too late
before she becomes
toxic again
and begins to eat
her own words

figs and nightshades
aniseed and truffles
sea vegetables
and coconut
dirt and other aphrodisiacs

Someone said
the rich bitch
owns a rowboat.
The rich bitch
is a rowboat.

Is a cardinal
in a snowstorm.

She owns a birdhouse
without a feeder.
She owns a red boat
with a black rudder
that scrapes off lies.

And she goes out at night
without feathers.

She was born
90 miles out.
Allentown, PA, to New York, New York,
before that song.

Never been to Montreal.
Never been to Seattle.
Or Tokyo or Jakarta or Prague.
It’s time—before it’s too late.

Never slept on a fire escape.
or tossed a key off one
for you to catch.
Is it time—too late.

Rearrange the furniture
after civil twilight.
Toss out an old rocking chair.
Another one. Remove

a wrought-iron frame entertainment
stand. Build
a forest of wood
and heavy metal.

Cancel your haircut.
Get lost in the trees
of sound. Resist
the urge to rest there

among severed branches
and a split sky.

She craves sitting
at a table
with a small lamp
and mood ring light.

She thinks about room
dividers but
chooses to exercise
her freedom against them.

She sees you
don’t need to own
a book
to own it.

Still she can’t
let go. Declutter

first enters the language
in the 70s
according to Google Ngram.
According to Google Ngram,

case could be cafe,
fame could be same,
sunk could be funk,
suck could be —

Or, it could have been 1950.
Hypertext tempts her
to clutter her mind
with red herrings

and parsed scraps of joy
that grow mold
when stored in dank drawers
below street level.

A photograph called
“Sisters Swimming”
hangs on
a coffee bar wall.

Shadows of naked limbs
and a spine on a rock
during a roadtrip to Grand Marais
define someone else’s bliss.

Let’s build a wall
of brick and mortar
that comes full circle
to meet itself
in a dark alley.

Make it wide enough
to stuff him in.
Slap a manhole cover
over it, so we can’t
see or hear him.

Seal it shut
without air holes.
Not just Mexico,
but the whole world
would pay for that.

When winter and construction
cover the mall
with unlaid pipe
embedded in frozen accidental lakes,
it’s time
to wrap the temporary fences
in stenciled word collisions:

BLUE / CITY | GOOD / STREETS
BURNING / NIGHTS | BARREN / WHISPER
FIRST / STORM | SWEET / JUNGLE
HARD / LAND | EASY / POEMS
SECOND / SNOW | DARK / ART
TALL / WALLS | VIBRANT / DAWN

It’s time
this time.

“There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me.
The sign was painted, said ‘Private Property.’
But on the backside it didn’t say nothin.
This land was made for you and me.”
—Woody Guthrie, “This Land Is Your Land”

She never had deep pockets. Tries
to lift her jaw off the ground.

Millions march with signs
In different cities around the world.

Not marking time. No
goose step. Limbs do bend.

Her body has always been
her body

even when she was determined
to destroy her before her time.

Her “No Means No”
sign abuts
“Judith Shakespeare LIVES
in you and in me.”

What has happened to the other signs
is none of her business.

Another alternative fact
slaps her with its curly tail

and broken glass fangs.

If she were a cat,
she would see

the man who clipped the whiskers
on her left cheek

knew what he was doing.
She gets stuck

trying to escape
through an abandoned milk chute.

But not judgment impaired,
not what she was wearing.

It’s not the anxiety
of visualizing how she might

rearrange the furniture. Not the cold
or thickened patches of ice outside.

It’s how to become the dry ice
his hot breath can’t sublimate.

On the bus that morning,
they sing protest songs.

No one remembers that lost verse
to “This Land Is Your Land.”

If she were a cat,
she would jump on the wall

to get a better look
at the backside of that sign.

* Written on Woody Guthrie’s guitar.