With mighty aplomb
You drop your vitreous 'view bomb'
With unorthodox precision
You squander my decision

You have one filter
And that is to kilter
The views that don't come from a stranger
The views that echo in your echo chamber

Fair pity to those who reach out with an olive branch
To give you another chance
A chance to move away from grief
A chance to turn over another leaf

i.
The sky grinds
under my heel
& scatters.

When the pool
stills, there's only
your face.

ii.
Below
larch branch,
below
cloud mark -
your words
echo
in my
blue thought.

iii.
Centuries ago
I wrote to you
"je suys vostre
sans de partier."

iv.
Sleep falls
to the floor,
its strings cut
by your hand
running over
my face.

v.
We move
shadow to
shadow in
this maze
of sun.

vi.
We hold hands
as night folds
& folds. Your
hand is soft
as song.

vii.
We make
love under
a coil, a
swan's moon,
a sea disc.

viii.
Autumn
in Paris,
streets paved
orange and red,
& my eyes saying
"want you."

ix.
You know what
champagne does
to me, but you
pour it anyway.

x.
"She was hiding
in lemon leaves
& apple blossoms."
-Abdul Wahab Al-Bayati,
Love Under The Rain, IX

xi.
The rain
in Dublin
makes me
think of
your wet hair
shining in
the doorway.

xii.
I get up early
to start the coffee.
You wake to
the sound of
water boiling.
When I appear
I bring morning
on my lips.

xiii.
Please draw
while I watch
in awe.
Please draw
as ice thaws
in my scotch.
Please draw
while I watch.

xiv.
I'll remove
the paper

butterflies
from your

ears as
you fall

asleep on
the couch,

little dove
in her nest.

xv.
I poach two eggs
for your breakfast,
with quince
& pear. The sun
journeys to us
from yesterday.
The cat's in the
window and
coffee steeps.
Perhaps this
is what lives
are made of.

xvi.
The image
of the nape
of your neck
as you watch
a movie late
on a cold night
full of snow thick
as dough, licked
with wind -
it's irresistible.

xvii.
We're in the
Rothko room at
the National Gallery,
translating white
square, blue band,
yellow over yellow,
black into black.
We move a little
closer together
as the canvases
mirror our
yearning.

xviii.
I read about
old Sumerian
gods, like
Inanna.
She could
never survive
in a world
where you
walk the earth.

xix.
Doing yoga in a
cement chamber
under the city,
muscles shaking.
Grateful for you
amid the ghosts
of streetcars.

**.
We bury time
in a plastic
sarcophagus
right in the
front yard,
casual as
a yam.

xxi.
Ulysses
and you,
the cork
and bottle.

"And then he asked
me would I yes."

xxii.
The smoke
cures the
whiskey.

The whiskey
spills
like tide.

The tongue's
tide seeks
your ear.

The ear
hunts
your thought.

The thought
wafts
like smoke.

xxiii.
Blood peel,
ginger
cumulus,
pink air
like chiffon,
a gloaming
song.

xxiv.
Swans mate
for life.
This wait
is a knife.
Dull rain
over K.
In my veins,
your sleighs.

xxv.
Silver thread
knotted cloud -
the moon's
broadcasting
through the
cindered air.
Your raw sienna
eye captures mine,
& in one moment
the entire night
is abandoned
to your arms.

xxvi.
The twilight
is imperial,
spreading
over that
moment
between
our past
& our future.

xxvii.
I still see you,
brush in hand,
red curving.
You seduced
with every line.

xxviii.
You breathe
life into my
world: the
field of wild
mint, the owls
in the cemetery,
the silver slash
of streetlamp,
the cream Impala.
Everything I see
is filled with us.

xxix.
You're the beat
within my chest.
I feel complete,
you're the beat
throbbing sweet
& I'm blessed -
you're the beat
within my chest.

I remember you
& that rebel C
of blonde hair
by your ear.

You let me
tuck it back,
even after you knew
I liked you.

You were fourteen
& your world
was engraved
in italics.

When I cut myself
for reasons
I couldn't speak to,
you understood.

We were exiles -
but I always had
the impression
you found me

too safe to date.
Oh, how you were wrong -
an irony, for
you spared yourself

the wild hurt
of my terrible soul,
& the wrecked self
I gave so many others,

for when I said
"I love you,"
I always meant
something else entirely.

I started thinking back on you
as early as college,
glassy well of gin
weeping for me in my hand.

Years after that,
my brakeless bicycle
invited me into a bath of sun
& you were waiting there

as a thought.
I remember
being so divided by you.
My longings

were only ever half
about the blue
of your eye,
& that blonde C

I turned it back so I could
touch you by the ear -
a gesture you always allowed.
Mercy? Desire?

I never knew.
The other half was new,
a movement inside me,
learning how

to be in love,
a fourteen-year-old's
grand, hopeless romance.
I was reminded of this

that July 4th a decade ago
when I saw you here
in my city,
with your husband.

You still held
skeleton keys
that opened
my older locks.

Your intelligence
canted over me
& erased
almost fifteen years

& my chest was smoke
& my skin was a sky
& just as before, half was love
& half was not.

I painted some poppies a year ago,
long-headed, red as the watery sun
that floats in the Bay at evening.
A girl I knew asked for the painting,
and I said yes, it was hers.
Then her silence gulped months away
in great raw swallows.
One day my phone shook in my hand,
and the girl who wanted poppies was there.

By then I was alone, in an abyss,
so I was ready to answer a voice
that drifted down in flurries.
She sang jazz across the city
into my pressed left ear,
and I opened to her
like a drawer full of old knives.

I tried to embrace it
but it wasn't two weeks
until I was in bed,
staring at the wall
where the poppies hung,
long-headed,
red as the watery sun
drowning in the Bay.

The following is an account of
expenses in connection
with the Underwood investigation.

Expense account item #1:
$24, cab fare to your office.
Case of Jane Underwood,

Seattle, not seen
the last eight days.
Insurance policy on

her: $10 million.
I took the case.
I cocked my hat

low over my eyes,
cigarette behind the ear.
Expense account item #2:

$322.74, airfare to Seattle.
I interviewed the family,
the friends, the husband -

they all had alibis -
& also the man
she was seeing on the sly.

Expense account item #3:
$33.08, two packs of cigarettes,
a pack of gum, and a beer

at the neighborhood bar
where I watched Jake Wilson -
the Other Man in the picture.

Expense account item #4:
$29.90, cab fare from the hospital
where Wilson just gave it up.

I found him folded under
a neon sign by a cheap hotel.
I didn't see where the shots came from.

Someone wants Underwood
the stay missing, very missing.
Expense account item #5:

$120, a new coat, the old one
has bullet holes. More close calls.
Digging around, I learn

Wilson was knee deep
in counterfeiting Franklins.
Crowbar to the basement door

of the house he was renting
under a different name,
I found the missing woman,

cuffed to a radiator, mostly fine.
She found out about the funny money,
threatened to go to the cops

unless Wilson cut her in.
She was over her head.
But then - so was I -

who shot Wilson?
Expense account item #6:
$75, marriage license, King County.

Jane Underwood and I are
running away together
with the bad hundreds.

Time to end one of these
stories the easy way.
Tired of Hartford,

tired of heart's noir,
consider me retired.
But then, holding her hand

driving to Los Angeles,
her purse falls open
& the gun that killed Wilson

falls into the footwell.
It was all a setup. It always is.
Her hand gets cold, tight,

real tight. The ride
is about to get... difficult.
If only she knew, if only she knew

how many times I'd seen this
twist, how many women,
how many guns, how many

Wilsons had fallen to the ground
under how many cheap
blinking blue broken neon signs.

I stand here,
cut from flight,
shaped by love.
You hold branches
of mulled wine
by the black milk river.
The blue and gold
of your soul
nestles in the sleep
of my eye.