During his stay, he catches glimpses of the TV’s
glare, a black-and-white dim series

The truth is none of our business.
Our adolescent eye-at-the-keyhole rooting
In a sweetheart’s soiled linen for a clue

The morning new cement is laid—at last! —
along the perimeter of Penn’s remodeled highrise
(although the old had spalled, cracked and heaved

It was a hard winter for the old eskimo,
Sent out on an ice floe by those he loved
More than life, more than seal blubber,

Why are we tempted (and why do I ally
myself with “we” when I can only mean
myself with certainty … while certainty

Maybe the moon is made of ice, not cheese,
And that’s why it’s so frightening.

At the bay’s edge and day’s end, we comb
the shore for beach glass, clouded grains
of clarity among the ground-down,

I got off my plane in a strange country
And saw you standing in the airport
With a blind smile, your eyes like diamonds,

Professor Felicity Harmonia
Taught the seminar in High Fidelity:
“The problem with Stereo … ” I can recall

Because distance becomes tumescent in the heat
the haze erases buildings out of walking range.
We’ve considered walking as far as the backyard