No More Reunion

Lakes recede
to reveal
what we were thinking

before it
all began. You listened

so well, retained
everything, convinced me
to run

not always solo.
Geothermal energy

not wind power
you argued. I know nothing
about robotics, even less

about how to fathom
your mysterious exit. What

am I supposed to do
with that fact? You won’t
be returning to explain.

Is It Mine Again?

Dumptruck sings “Get off
my island.” Used to be
my refrain even though
I’ve always known no one

(especially me) can really own
it. Just missed going to college
with one Dumptrucker. Shared a cab
from the Lower East Side to Prospect Heights
early one Sunday morning with another.

An oral history gets written
down. What gets lost
in translation becomes ghost
poems that only recite

themselves under waxing
crescent moons. But when they do,
you can hear them echo
up freshly rained-on empty streets
with titles like “urban spring” and “long live
the lighthouse keeper.”