POEMS 

It’s been raining all day, and now I’m tired.
I want to brush my teeth and stretch beneath
Dry, smooth sheets. The dog is sleeping
On his back on the couch I bought on sale

When we first met, there was a café
Down the block from your building where I’d
Wait for you, drink coffee, then drink more,
And try to understand what love meant,

I don’t know why I didn’t recognize it
Sooner, that vague shape made up of
All the lives I could have had and
Didn’t choose and the one I did choose—
All asking for me to remember them.

The Long Trail up Vermont was all
Tree roots and mud. I had a raincoat,
A monk’s cowl made from plastic
The color of bricks. It covered

Tonight, we spoke on the phone.  We’d both
Gotten flu shots and were waiting to
See if we were going to feel sick.
Some years, you’d sleep for ten hours straight.

The Romans left it in Egypt, the Americans in Italy,
Tagging stone walls or the side of a tomb. There
Must be a need to leave your name displayed
Prominently, so that it’s still there when you’re not—

On a wet night in Mar-a-Lago, the lights of cars
In the parking lot are washed clean by the rain.
The valets dodge dark puddles, as they run,
Keys in hand, toward two Bentleys—the white one

If the world should end while we are on one of our walks,
I won’t complain or use my last minutes to imagine
All the places we could have traveled or all the things
I wanted us to do together. Instead, I would sit

He said he didn’t understand why he had cancer. 
He said he’d been a good man.  Fluorescent lights
Flickered above the bed.  The curtains were
Closed even though it was just after lunch. 

Each year the buzzards come back to feed,
To eat roadkill, dogs and opossums.
They stretch the intestines on the grass
And crowd in close looking for answers

Mephistopheles and Faustus had been eating roast duck
With pancakes and scallions in a Chinese restaurant
In Midtown, and after dinner, they’d gone for a walk
Up toward Central Park. There was a question Faustus

This poem is like a train station.
Down long staircases, escalators,
Are the platforms of coming, going,
Of tourists and businessmen, children

The women at the prison talk to each
Other about their boyfriends outside,
About their children’s fathers, about
The children themselves, who would

It’s 9 p.m. I’m taking the dog
For an evening walk, up by the mall,
Then following the canal. The moon
Won’t rise till later, and the clouds streak

The smooth, white skull on Goethe’s desk
Did not, as he thought, belong to Raphael.
It was the skull of a man with a brain disorder.
The salesman must have lied. Who knows

There are no blooms on the hibiscus
On the patio. It doesn’t get
Enough sun. The shadow of the house
Blocks it most of the day, but right now

​I poked the peat fire in the tourist cottage,
Bought chops and carrots from the local
Butcher, and drank too many pints of Guinness
At the town’s only pub. When I threw up,

First, you buy the kit from Target or Amazon.
I heard that Costco has them as well, and they
May be a little cheaper. There are people who
Say they all start out the same. I don’t know.

At a fruit stand in the Everglades, Faustus
Orders a papaya-mango milkshake
That he drinks through an oversized straw.
The parking lot is full, and covers of

You had already lost your balance, and
There was nothing left in your stomach. I
Thought you had food poisoning, blamed it
On the ground beef in the Lebanese kibbe

For the last week, the moon’s risen late,
Climbing over the shopping mall, the
Rooftops, old mango trees, the canal
Where the ducks are asleep and no breeze

When our backs and legs are stiff in the morning and movement’s
Awkward, a hobbling gait to the left and right, and our hands are
Swollen with the ache that comes from grasping and missing,
The right hand forgetting what the Psalmist called its “cunning,”

If I have faith, it’s that the world is sayable,
That I can find words for what I didn’t think could be said.
The weight of a stone fountain filled with clear water,
The sunlight that plunges through vacant clouds,

Down the street, a dog is barking, and pigeons
Coo in reply, a low trill that celebrates the end
Of daylight, mares’ tails floating in from
The Mediterranean. Perhaps, in Mallorca,

Tomorrow, I’ll get up early to drive
The dog to the vet. He’s having the rest
Of his teeth removed. They’re decayed,
And he gets gum infections. He bleeds