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.

Only When You Accused Me of Starving Myself

Let’s agree to disagree
about this anger
I don’t feel. Only
those numbers in your handwriting
erased from a chalkboard
30 years ago know
how we were supposed to add up

or not. A psychology
of emotions cannot qualify

the spirit in the slate,
a song over the dugout,
stanzas hidden in the threshold
we passed through
so many times
without thinking to pause
long enough to honor the reveal.

Latitudes Off Kilter

Close enough is never enough
to align your hips
with my waist
no matter how long I ride
this train going south. I overshoot

the dream by a zone
or two. It’s up to me
to make adjustments. In your permanent
state—you won’t budge. But
weather is everywhere—weather is

god. I am everywhere wondering where
you’ve gone to weather god.

Air Mail Through an Open Window

If I die tonight, will we
become lovers by tomorrow
evening? Civil twilight to entwine
two severed spirits. Counting
finally done. To drink or not, new
wine or old—it won’t matter. That age gap
sewn up once and for all. If
I make it till morning, I will continue
to keep a record
of what might have been.