Woburn, Mass.

So this is the setting
of those high school days I made
you long for. This is you

at the age I was
when we met. So that was your secret
ambition. That’s your smile

before the war
bent it out of shape. So this is me
trying to make sense of the ultimate


our paths crossed in the exact
tangled deformation
they did.

Yearbook: A Found Poem

“There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face.”
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Black and white is better.
A chance to sing
with the prettiest
soccer player he ever coached is best

between the pipes. The choral
room fades into a late-night debate
séance. A rude awakening—you
were no challenge to her

even before she got so lonely
on her mountain. Did you get your kiss
beside a pile of broken
chairs? Behind another brick

in the wall? Bonfire flames
and umbrella silhouettes
become an unfinished
symphony. The egg

drop comes before those fish drawn
on their foreheads in crayon. You make me long

for the artless construction
of your face.


Back then you said I made you long
for your high school days. I wouldn’t go

back there. Yet I yearn
to make you yearn again. But

too much has come to pass—
including your demise.