I want her to be what I need
her to be, i.e., a mirror for my
want. There is no man but owns his own soul.

There is skill to it, how you hold your back all day, the dole
of force behind the stroke, the size of bite, where
to hit, and knowing behind each swing a thousand others wait

When I see driven nails I think of the hammer and the hand,
his mood, the weather, the time of year, what he packed
for lunch, how built up was the house,

When I was twelve, 
My tennis coach asked me 
To pose for him after practice.

In the moment of death
can I climb through the bright rectangle
into the resurrection

Out of the twilight a small voice
hisses shut up, just shut the fuck up.

And on the receiver’s live air, the insistent hello
from someone who has refused to hang up, the plea
divorced from all name and form,

Inside the shelter of another morning.
The escaping minutes that bottle bees ride,
phone numbers carved into the walls.

Rembrandt, 63

The surprise always
something has not abandoned us,

the way, standing there, another’s
expression as you realize

When my right hand—
When the hand that had been mine—
When I found that hand
curling inward stayed
curled

protestations meant nothing; prayers.
Thinking, not thinking—
nothing.