after Diane Seuss  

Frankly, Brooklyn, you’re too damn much. Elaborate  

cardamom bun and a cappuccino that too easily  

deflates. I was thrifting, now retreating to a couch  

where I feel I must chat up the couple next to me.  

It has to do with Kierkegaard and, of course,  

over-extracts from there. The one, a philosopher.  

The other, a poet. Oh, you too? And have you read  

Diane Seuss as he pulls this gem from his bag.  

Stark, double-spaced sonnets march in royal defiance  

of titles across 130 nonchalant pages. Each ending  

a slap somewhere—the thigh, my heart, often the  

face. Oh, Diane—you crack of black pepper! Such  

serendipities in this unpredictable life of mine. My  

existence, my finishing sugar—you so raw and fine.