This is my lawn. I planted it, I grew it, 
and I work hard ensuring it’s attractive. 
I keep it clear of every type of pest.

We have all been there once. Some, more than that.
They forced us all to visit one September.
But that was such a long, long time ago.

Aeneas ditched Dido despite foundations. He had a vision.
Days he was frantic for explanation, nights
the fervid gods assailed him. Who knows the mind

“Phyllis, be done with me once more,
as long as, a day or two later,
you declare peace again.”

As a doll I flew on a plane
for a lover, convinced his fists
uncovering my blood meant: win.

I’m laughing at her, that red-cheeked doll,
my storm-of-the-century. She is icicles!
I’m hoarding odd gallons, dreaming of fear.

More than the eyes looking back at you
More than the voice quelled in the throat
More than the bed and eider quilt beneath the window

I’ve heard that you said, when a scene you had revised 
Still didn’t suit a man you used to know, 
“But I am not Kafka!” What artist hasn’t sized 

Two rooms, rather, one flight up, half-seen
Through the gilt palm fronds of rue Messaline.

Sparse furnishings: work table, lamp, two chairs,

There is a city whose fair houses wizen 
In a strict web of streets, of waterways 
In which the clock tower gurgles and sways,