“The victim is not the person who wakes
in the middle of the night. The victim is not
the person who sleeps until noon.”

Sift past lives through a sieve, careful where the wind carries.

Tumble of organs, whose house of grief?

Reach past the veil. The spirits cannot hear you.

Like my ancestors before me
at the five and dime on Moore Street:
a desperado Jew heads east.

You have seen this play a thousand times,
but as you are about to wake up
for the first time you will notice a telegram
on the gramophone:

I count the walls around me,
floorboards gleaming, bed
unmade, I do not hold
a cigarette and I am not
your wife.

pulled gently
but the scalp was smooth and cleft
strange I thought but it will be ok

While the wax is drying I write different endings to our story
They always include the ceremony she suggested
where we lick bee syrup off each other’s fingers

you are what keeps us here
life is a race

trauma is a baton
you place in my hands

No one trusts the city streets any longer, and the streets trust no one either. The buildings, too, tip their gutters to pour their algae onto mute life.