Could Have Been Foss

She might become a square foot
gardener. Her beds

raised and compact, she tends
to her slopes

as intensely as she used to
roll down them.

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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.

Wadsworth Falls, CT

Where was she
when they were giving
out licenses? Which daydream
distracted her
from motorized
vehicles? Which water

fall, where did
the trail go? Sitting beneath

one with him naked
decades ago, she didn’t
really care. Pistol
factories, textile mills, flume
or sluiceway is all that remains.
As if she could return.

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.”

There She Is

Not ready for the flash
mob to erase her
memory of him. Or
his name. She confesses

to her Connecticut days
and nights. No one
will recognize her
in this white tee, black

hoody, blue jeans, white
sneakers. She could—and
she will—take
another route home.