Syllables shaped around the darkening day’s
contours. Next to armchairs, on desks, lamps
were switched on. Tires hissed softly on the damp

As my wife buys our daughter her first bra
I wait beside the escalator
with our packages from Sears and J.C. Penney’s,

Pewter, then silver, the palest gold, an almost
silence we almost could hear, dawn led us out.
So light a sound had lifted us from our pillows.

I AM MY FATHER’S ONLY UNBORN DAUGHTER.
I gave birth to my mother and am responsible for her death.

Someone who believes that at least one part of her 

Hudsons and Studebakers ruled the streets, 
a crossing guard and teenagers the pavement 
when I was eight. But that was an improvement 

People walk out of themselves into
the river. The surface
is a sound you can’t hear.

Entering a cave, or stepping outside at night,
artificial blindness, temporary
but absolute. And if I lost sight,

Is it a myth? And if so, what does it tell us about ourselves?

Is Kong a giant ape, or is he an African, beating his chest
like a responsive gong?

As evening lifted off the canals
and sounds we couldn’t see through,
muffled as a vaporetto moving through water

I know why all the old men want young 
girls, why the other old men love young 
boys, for I see how they are like