The Flats

If only you had come down
that warm June night.
To rescue her

from his leaping kiss, from
herself—you might have deflected
the obsession

from his visage
to yours. Might have cherished
her beautiful catastrophe

longer than
a summer’s breath. River
to lake—lake to river

bed, you might have left her
another widowed
word in the end.

Flat Iron

I may (dis)honor the memory
of our affair. No number
of lies will erase clouds
from a June sky. A man lies

in an empty garbage cart—the clean-up
crew waits for another festival
to end. Can a phone company’s window display
do justice to this first

skyscraper the City sent up
over itself? No one’s going to remember
I worked there too.