Tell me about a complicated man.
Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost
when he had wrecked the holy town of Troy,

I’ll never forget the day I met
The author of Prufrock and his wife. 
It wasn’t a big occasion,

What if givenness isn’t enough—
and the wind’s slithering along my arm
is really a subtle summery alarm

We hurl ourselves over
      then over again
into the wall

On a day of windy transition, one season to the next,
you spoke of helping your mother close her house,
of the choices you had to make—what to discard, 

With us, it’s about
choices.
How many kinds

Flag lolling 
on its pole
like a dog’s tongue.

The brain has powerful filters
that screen out most
thoughts and images:

Unlikely, 
the homelife
of water

More than a fistful
of stubby green fingers
pushing up through gravel.