As the ice breaks on the pond 
on a warm February Sunday,
the air delivering
floral hints of the future,

you and I stand and wait
for the car to arrive
that will take you away
to start your new life,

even if you do find a way back
for a visit, driven by nostalgia,
or a hope, it won’t be the same, 
the cabin weathered by harsh dust 

the grand maple gone.
I’ll have changed, too, 
when you spot me
walking up the steep hill

to the road, so slow 
and old by then 
you’re sure to mistake me 
for somebody else.

the breeze swishing the tails of curtains

I sleep with the windows open to let the earth say hello to the house that has been built upon its back
thank you for that

At sunset I water the pots on the terrace
left by Brother Gardener who’s off to Ireland
where God waters everything almost all the time.
But here in Rome, God is busy elsewhere
(perhaps across the Tiber in the Pope’s office).

But here, I fill the plastic watering can and visit
each pot: the lemon tree, which has grown very pretty
with sweet flowers indeed, tho’ no fruit to sample
for bitter;  the abundant basil with leaves to rub
and sniff for memories; the mint likewise
(perhaps a leaf to chew); the peppers planted
(but not picked, for they will not yet yield a peck)
by Jan Dominik, somewhere off in Slovenia
and the 14th century; and the many other pots
whose plants poets perhaps know—but I do not.                                                                     
                                                                                          Being ignorant
of what graces this rooftop garden at sunset
where gulls circle in their nightly conference, commenting
on tourists who suffered the day’s heat. The noisy conclave
ignores me. They have a better view of the sunset.

Smart enough
to be an engineer.
Handy enough
to work construction.

Yet somehow
dumb as a loaf of bread
for a short moment.

One drill.
Straight through the wall.
A careless mistake.
Violent spark.
Kitchen goes dark.

Luck feels terrifying.

You cheated death.
Somehow
life protects fools.

Glad to know
out of all idiots,
it protected
my idiot.

flick (you in the long dark kitchen, egg, buttermilk, cornmeal, leavening,
a bacon grease seasoned skilled slick as Narcissus’s reflecting pool)—
flick (dim green gradient skies,
silhouette black riverscape, the familiar woman watching from the bridge)—flick
(around every hallway bend, its mirror, every stair, its next flight,
until, God forbid, the uppermost landing)—flick…

try not to rise in anger. think about Kellogg’s inspiration, last night’s popcorn. in the quiet lonely morning, leftover cornbread for breakfast.

fruit basket

bashed in, bruised and

browned bananas

tasked with

a hand thats armed

to swat fruit flies

dead; abandoned

slack gnats, bug

smacked, guts stain

my palms

didn’t even mean to trap it

i could be dramatic

collapse quick

everyone knows my gripe with insects

taunted, when they flaunt

such small hips

tipped over into nostrils

flutter by, lick my ears

slick, please

stop

it with

the tricks

i am big thats

my disadvantage so

ill have the blue light

catch flies

for me

be careful

landing

I ain’t been down 

I click on the smiling picture
of me from three weeks ago.
I refuse to take a photo now.

I look for the full moon—
for the direction I used to know—
but I am swallowed
by a sky gone black.

The doorway keeps making space.

There is a gravity in my chest now;
everything collapses toward it.

The moment you appear,
I sew my mouth shut.
My thumbs hover above the glass;
I open our thread and come undone.