When youre gone (always) the day is a snapshot
my citys tallest building is the Westin;
foaming milk is like finding a radio station; summer peeks
her head out of a manhole cover, retreats; I recognize
beers by how their bottles break.
I dont dream you
at the threshold: your open mouth, a lockless city.
Nor the chips of bone in that heavy bag of ash.
Can you kill a ghost with fire?
The train conductor calls BACK
BAY and I am awake. I have no secrets. I lose every lottery
drawing. My scalp tingles when I stare into strangers.
The sun isnt a quitter; sweat stains my seams; I am not
a flowering tree. I would tell you all of it.
Are you the reason the kettle wont sound
when it boils? The dead seem present
in winterwindows trace them
in frost. But this winter,
cold wouldnt snap. Will you visit
anyway? (Pour three fingers of rye. Sing
a song we know in passing.)
This time of year, the clouds get fickle. I remember
a drought when you took army showers, how you said
it shouldnt take more than a gallon of water to get clean.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 38 | Fall 2012