All I am stops here.
My nose is my farthest outpost.

Fat Russian novels are sinking
like grandmothers into the snow,

It surprises me how quickly I can conjure
You before me, more familiar to myself
Than my own mirrored face. You sit

My mind long gone, having forgot to shut the body
             off, I will lie in some spare room,
some former nursery, entranced by waiting for death

Heathrow could not touch things. 
They always shied away from him.

He was magnetic, but in the anti-sense of the word. 

That rusting water tower collapsing
on its ruin was the movie theater
where you sat in smoky consternation

The empty mills brood on the river, grim 
with boarded doors and blackened eyes as bleak 
as those of men who might have tales to spin 

The money, he asks, haven’t you
thought about the money?
We’re feeding her

Best of all things are the lights in the sky
but what I am seeking is sleep.
Or not sleep exactly,

You think of moving the captured submarine 
to a permanent berth alongside the museum
in your city. A retired engineer who spent