I remember you now
as the mermaid on the rocks
who would have called me to crash
if I had ever dared to set sail.

All mountains are pretty much alike
they’re tall
they hurt you
it rains on them
every afternoon
so climb them early

In Bucha, where the flowers grow fat on the graves
and broken bricks and bent metal fill up the street,
young wives lose their lovers to bullets and thieves

It’s a paper home and
I wonder if I can make paper from it, as
stupid a thought as that is. Paper I can write
that letter I’ve been meaning to write, say.

how streetlights at night
in a blossomed car-passage
share some of the function
of flowers; their shines striking raindrops
which settle on windowpanes
and circle to petals like fists.

she sat down
on a tall stool
and
asked for a martini
running her hand
through her wet hair
shaking it dry

Who could see
in the murk of those first pictures
with their subdued browns,
dismal flat farmhouses,
overcast skies,
what was to come

I’m not an explorer
in search of a spark to ignite my soul
Nor am I an immigrant looking for another man’s soil
to crystallize my dreams; I am a shadow
I follow

Would you like some raisins, some cheese?
I delve into the pack
that’s been weighing me down,
pulling me back,
causing me grief,
but without which I would be without
raisins and without cheese.

There is no love.
There’s black smoke.
There’s cigarette air
and there are automobiles breaking down
in the inclement weather.