I can't stop thinking about them:

the dead squirrel,

the doves whose droppings
dot my freshly painted fence--a graffiti
in scatological code beyond my ken

the unmarked graves of Sham,
Krishna, and Chauncey--loyal pets
who never got the needle

the Zinnias up from seed who feel ambivalent
about being alive--one day drooping, the next day
appearing to thrive

and the jacuzzi,
empty now except
for her memory,

the daughter whose name
I will not say, who fell asleep in that hot tub
and did not wake up

perhaps seeds sewn so near
don't know what to make of warm water's
perverse powers

I shall stay home tonight
For head is louder than the sphere's noises
Throbbing with words... I can be less familiar
The moderns, it said, are swallowing us whole
But who are us? Who spoke?
Emily... whispered to me
Through this loneliness of poetry
I am not a modern, she said, we are ancient
But why I am her patient? To her, who told?
Axis of modernity... that's where she is
Through this, we made love to each
So I will settle, I said, to your handsome endowma
Questions, questions... no more conundra
Through and through, I must deify you