Weary am I now love
now that I’m weary of love

      On a park bench after dark,
      practically begging
      to be assaulted, I—Wolf,
      you bit my hand off.

I’m a sad case, really: little things please me.
                                                                                     —Len Goodman

I drove 50 miles to buy a birthday present.
Why: not so much bigheartedness
as pleasure in the process—

Frankenstein, an early adopter, fidgets by firelight

Over rooftops, over time
the rain washes. And walls
that had watched men die

I never imagined
him buried thus,
to the din of trolleys

It had to be some poet from Brazil
not one of the greatest, more likely to make a fool of himself
shuffling around somewhere in your vicinity or aspiring to dwell there

It’s the small package
I’ve carried with me
these dozens of years

He’s inside, he must continue, at an infinite
rate, like a word
discovered with other words

A child pointed at the sky, made it his,
and then he points at the one he loves
and suddenly it’s his sky,

The blanket, its weight, while we were growing.
Or the eyes, which yesterday were blind,
today yours, yesterday the indivisible. The vials,