Driving by it now—walking in Brownsville
is no longer safe—536 remains
the only semi-private house on the block.

The newborn fell asleep beside her mother who died in the early morning from a blood clot in her brain.
Quiet and lovely, Beth's death was a loss for millions of little girls.

Their bodies were found five miles apart in the kitchens of their homes.

Once it seemed possible, those boys
Peeking out of gun slits at the German line
Or on graves detail, wet, miserable,

For the base I prefer a paste of unscented soap, egg white, & glue or gelatin, often peroxide—
never, as do some of my competitors, chewed muslin strips or (loathsome!) bits of animal tissue!
Though receiving but five dollars each night at the lyceum (a dollar at home),

The workers labor in the emptied lot,
          the sweat of summer’s aluminum noon
                    tempering the dry glint of pick and shovel

He is looking at the city from a field,
          the flowers at his back elaborate symbols
                    of some spurned reality:

Red stripes around my ankles, tight
as sisters. We are maybe fourteen, priceless 
with gooseflesh.

Excluding genitalia,
What is a man?
A little boy all grown-up. A reverse neverland.

I lie quiet among my possible suits,
feet to head, feet to head.
Blue, black, white, red.

Slapped by saplings, hampered by roots,
our shovels went like spoons into
mouths that opened wider as we worked.