Sad as you soaped me in the bath
And as you fidgeted with watches
You no longer fixed.

The sore trees cast their leaves
too early. Each twig pinching
shut like a jabbed clam.
Soon there will be a hot gauze of snow

How quickly we’re skimming through time,
leaving behind us
a trail of muffin crumbs
and wet towels and hotel soaps
like white stones in the forest.
But something’s eroded them:
we can’t trace them back
to that meadow where we began so eagerly
with the berry-filled cups, and the parents
who had not yet abandoned us
to take their chances in the ground.

I do not do well without my chattel.
I do not do well without doing what I will with my chattel.
My chattel my bodies my buildings my land.

 From the sky to the heavens’ heavens                                
 From the heavens’ heavens to the darkness on high                
     From the darkness on high to the upper dwelling       

The Bradford pears fringing the city street,
Loveliest of trees, hung blooms in their shy way,
Dangling the sweaty scents of longing, play,

I will go rent a U-Haul, and move to Hackensack,
And a cheap condo buy there, the driveway freshly tarred,
Hard by the Jersey turnpike, a swingset in the back,

I knew a girl who also had a ghost
living in her mouth-what we called dumb

I cling to nightfall, hide my speed from my
belief of bronze. I’ve risen from a dream

No daylight ghosts among my flesh.
I am a candle pulling at the dark.