You left nothing, only the Stevens book
That read: There is not nothing, no, no never…
Nothing and a yellow bicycle:
Two tires on a rickety frame.
When I do pick up a poem,
It’s to hear the gravel cadence of you,
Softer, informed by everything that spins:
A world, a bicycle, a chestnut tumbling
Downhill the city’s painted a roadside path,
My collarbone’s begun to mend.
The house gets drafty late afternoons
So I learn to cook:
Turmeric, cayenne. Hing & coriander.
cardamom. Cumin & mustard seeds.
Hing’s a pungent flower called asafetida
And corriander’s just cilantro.
Icy fingers spindle wheels on window panes.
I leave the teakettle to boil.
Spokes of trees shiver in the silverish dusk
Taking lessons from everything bare,
I let in the cold to hear
No stones turned in the drive.