It’s just that
coming home around six a.m.
I knew this place was Rome
four days after the sacking
I imagined the rescue of the children
hustled out of a crashing courtyard
in an old, blue Ford
Your crossword puzzles were everywhere
Like a bomb-shocked ancient citizen
returned to an unsettled wreckage
I stooped to finger what remained
kicking away impediments to see beneath
I bruise myself in recognition
of what’s been lost. I long
for familiar charged things
but am relieved at the devastation
Split, I lean and tremble
on what once was a kitchen table
I rake fear over my chest
I embrace myself
I will not let go
The Other End of the Leash
What a winter thaw on Roosevelt Island revealed about pigeons, geese, and the small decisions neighbors make
The first thing winter reveals when it loosens its grip is not green grass. It is honesty.
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