Twice in my quickly disappearing forties
someone called while someone I loved and I were

The King of Denmark wore a yellow star.
French Jews paid for their own with one textile

people are laughing, people are throwing
their wine glasses against the sad fires

Finally in a land more extravagant than you, dear,
more extravagant, yes —but pointedly less distinctive.

Loving that man was a way of hating God:
useless, and no sense of privacy.

A little boy joins a club called the Friendly Indians.
His parents think it will be good for him. At the powwow

The wife has painted the bedroom floor, and tonight
they are downstairs in the study, in the pullout bed

Park Ridgeway’s wife, this hot August afternoon,
comes shrieking across the street with one hand

What if the great day never comes
And your life doesn’t shine with vivid blossoms,
Just with the usual pale variety?

Shall I give up on salvation
And suppose the unit of life isn’t the self.