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.

Penny, a house dog, relegated to the split level first floor playroom
Sweet and well-behaved until, undogged, undone by thunderstorms
She cowered, shaking, under the couch
Or broke taboo and slunk upstairs

This prosaic autumn morning, on the street,
a robin. I mean: in the street. I mean:
two cars, their wheels within inches,

I am the American
failure
kissing the sky with a manicured
lawn with skeletons
buried in the backyard

a Garbo in Ninotchka,
or Greta Gerwig in Greenberg,
leaning on the jamb
before you pause then wrist
the knob