Knotted

Graffiti artists or civil
engineers leave
their mark on a sidewalk

outside an abandoned gas station. A half empty
bottle of Coors, one soaked pack
of Camels beside

your tombstone—vandals or care
takers. The golden

section, topology, a field
trip to the MIT Computation Center. Figures
may not lie, but street addresses can

disappear. What’s left is
open to interpretation.

Lesson Plan

If I study the word
“long” from every measured angle
I still won’t know what
you meant or felt by those right-slanting
letters. And with you

dead, those secrets will remain secure
inside a locker
I’m not meant to discover. If I do,
I‘ll pretend not to remember
the combination just so you can

teach me about numbers again—

however it is you ghosts
do that sort of thing.

Hallowed

She doesn’t visit haunted houses.
But for you she might
walk the disappearing

floor boards just to spy the illusion
of you and those insinuations

your eyes and long fingers held
captive for so many years. Creaks
expose only laughter wrapped

around the mystery
of what might have been. If

only those planks had been
longer, straighter,
of sounder wood.