Wednesday, March 30, 2005


As if the old miracle
Had an inherent
Geography, my heart

Is wester than my apartment
Tonight, the cars
In the rain on the streets

Shushing us to bed, the sirens
Doing just the opposite, it’s too
Bad our grandparents

Are dead, I do covet
Their memories, broken
Beer bottles, straight

Jackets, the choir, the folk
Dancing tour, how
We brush and convert

These specificities we’ve been
Told, not actually
Remembering a single

One or remembering merely
A memory, slit
Wrists, three sets

Of twins, a baby mislaid
In Texas and what
Of me will go

Missing that hasn’t already
Dissolved into hair
Dust grates fuzz wax etc.

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