I was older than you called me by my freckles when we met, barely
stretched over the cattails lazily in sweet winds imperceptible usually through
the hot water air
at a parboil

your cigarette-and-sunscreen, cigarette-and-sunshine smell and feel I have you
now as I walk eyes closed down the autumn street
no all smokes do not smell the same, I miss you—

the world in your departure is static for the most
ironic twist of you thought, you thought that I was beautiful
I wasn’t, not while you were watching, not till you
were farther
till I was older, barely

oh if all smokes were you still
if all the suns were you
if I weren’t beautiful and you were looking
oh

I remember vaguely speaking of water tension when I spoke of you, when I realized the amount of our time I spent in pajamas and that that was bigger than just I-like-pajamas, it was also getting inside the bubble on the penny so as not to feel the contours of the water so much as each drop grew it into more fragile, and more fragile, and more fragile, and it defied the middle school science experiment when it never broke. it never broke. when it happened in my eyes it always broke and when it happened in kissing it always broke but the big bubble that we were in never broke. I thought that was good. we defied science, I thought. but the thing about water tension is that it is tension and it never went away. until now. I don’t feel you when I see you now. I feel that you feel me but it doesn’t matter. it broke. it was just a water droplet on a penny.

Let’s go back to 1.
To start again, to meet you, to seventeen, to yellow
and hugs, to hammers and strings.
Nobody knew me then, and I ****** up
told them the true story.
Let’s go back, and I’ll tell you a different one.
It started out a prepschool fantasy. I had a
Great Perhaps, and you
(were there, probably)
And then I ****** up, my friend.
I’d like to revert to 1: a second round
I’m ready, now.
Hello, nice to meet you
Would you like to have a drink with me?
I will say yes. I will be thin again for you
And when you touch my arm
I will not shrink
from you.
Let us. Let me, at least
Revert to 1
and promise
(I do—to do better now).

On money-soaked leather, we’ll make angels
no I’m sorry—we’ll make amends
I will talk breathy and flutter my eyelashes; I will be Daisy Buchanan
a rosewater anachronism that needs no cigarettes and no pretense, only
Attention
(I stood at, when you said goodbye)
There will be no end. There was no end. Not a goodbye.
On rust-red rooftops we will soliloquize
(about what?) (it doesn’t matter)
We will throw lit matches and watch how fire makes its mark
And we will separately wonder where it goes
and—are you listening?—we will watch the sunrise
and I will tell my daughter about that day when she is older.
A prepschool fantasy. We will drink to the word “contraband”
and it will be 1966—the rich kids’ 1966, the whitewashed one we pretend we are ashamed of.
I will be Daisy Buchanan, and thin again for you.
Let’s go back to 1. I would love to
try again, and better now.

on Orion's belt, she spends her wish
though he hangs there, unfalling, why wait,
she wonders, why wish on empty air
(she forgets, though, that even Orion,
brightest warrior, isn't really there)

and she dreams in most conventional
metaphors, and she scolds herself: her
unconscious architect
would not be commissioned for the
Golden Gate Bridge, or anything, if you
know
what I mean

when she closes her eyes (awake)
she sees the colors like his synesthesia
though he kept his finger paintings locked away
and his fingers without prints
never there (he's never there)

and good mornings come in pairs
and nights look unempty (don't tell
her what they are)
why wait, she wonders

god forbid you wait

when the milk light steals into my eyes—hey it’s grownups’ goodmorning
—I let your elbow go and then I pull it back again, soft metonymy (i
sometimes remember
when you’re awake, and abashed I keep it quiet
how you’re my favorite part
—of what?—not applicable, but this morning I remember
when your eyes are closed, and I let you feel how much I
feel you in my ribs when you’re all around me)

the punctuation of the days was always mine and I
couldn’t breathe as well without keeping the dark
for me just me
and still my eyelids weigh me down a little but
I don’t mind
hey goodmorning

two bridges only went down in the fire
my architectural catalogue was largely unscathed--the
ones with the most foot traffic these days
standing tall still
but two went down.

first my most recent design.
in the city I just left it stood alone and imposing and
gray
weather beaten in so few months
and weak--not my best work, though
I gave it everything when it was commissioned.
I thought it might crumble some day.

one other was lost--the first tall one that I'd built
and the first unexpectedly beautiful
ornate thing I was ever proud of.
I hadn't been back in years when I got the call. no one-last-photo of
its sunset or one-last-drive across its bumpy surface.
just a clearer view to the skyline
--takes longer to reach now, the traffic on 95 is a real *****.

years since I'd been back
but I wasn't quite finished, not
forever

je ne suis qu'une femme
qui cache un enfant derrière son visage
cette fille qui me tient la main
et qui me suit avec pieds lourds
yeux soit au soleil ou au sol
mais jamais devant elle
et moi, je dois toujours
regarder derrière moi
pour faire certaine qu'elle n'est pas tombé
encore sur la terrain que nous traversons ensemble
ensemble, mais pas du tout
la même personne
je suis une femme, mais pas encore
fini mon enfance

He halted in the wind, and—what was that
Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
He stood there bringing March against his thought,
And yet too ready to believe the most.

“Oh, that’s the Paradise-in-bloom,” I said;
And truly it was fair enough for flowers
had we but in us to assume in march
Such white luxuriance of May for ours.

We stood a moment so in a strange world,
Myself as one his own pretense deceives;
And then I said the truth (and we moved on).
A young beech clinging to its last year’s leaves.