Last night we were together again.
You moved into my house,
flooded the living room
and stocked it with giant carp.
I watched orange and black fish
twist, swirl and peck each other
through water dyed brown
by the hardwood bottom.

I am in a city of wide avenues
and boulevards with island dividers
all pointing to the west,
where the sunset casts angular light
across the stern facades.
A few tall trees die
of dutch elm disease.
Most of the sky is stolen by rooftops.
One thin figure
paces, scratching his scalp, leaning
to sniff for wind, tossing
handfuls of meal
to hungry pigeons.

Sometimes I forget your name.
I will always know your face,
your white spiked hair,
the blazing morning light through white drapes,
how clean it all felt.
Your sweet sweaty nape frightened me.

The night before, we’d rode an hour on the subway.
Ocean Parkway, you said. I remembered that.
Now I’m back. There’s still no traffic,
like a Sunday morning, or an August evening
when everyone in the world
is at Coney Island or Jones Beach.