Sure, you've reason to weep. Who hasn't? From somewhere
there's loud and incoherent hammering, a solar system
being built from cannibalized parts.
Everything simple has become complex. The librarian
doesn't care as she once might have that the books I'm
returning are missing some words. A yellow cab, its engine
running, is always waiting at the curb for a messiah to
It's the difference between a democracy and a republic,
dark, mossy clouds like morbid thoughts not even drugs can
dispel. And though there's no wind, the puddles shiver.
My face has come to resemble the faces I've met in
elevators and vestibules. I should've known it would, and
that I'd be admitted, before heartbreak had vaporized, to
the priesthood of grief.
The air is burning; the clock, unreliable. I stop to rest
with the newborn on the border of shrill gulls.