It’s strange how often
All these years later
I hear this guy
Sprawled big in that way certain
Italian men can be
Cater-corned across from
My solo table in the Boylston St eatery

Who were you before ships
became your shoes? Now you sway

on mesozoic legs wondering why
there’s no stability inside. I heard you pierced

ears with knives and severed free thinking
on every continent before.

At the gallery is The Kiss
– you know the one –
Those two marble lovers, oblivious, entwined,
Stealing a moment never meant to be seen.
Did they know what would come, I wonder.
Do you know they had names?

They don’t write many books
about when the love dies

I tell em’ to picture the river
washing over the familiar rocks
The pull we feel to abandon
any sense of continuity
Our broken compasses
Our broken bastards

traveling through lightning is
disorienting
I am here
I am not
all this living is more electrifying
when the sky trembles
with light

A picturesque day
in Newtown: scattering
clouds danced joyfully,
making playful shapes,
monkeys and rhinos
followed the children
from car to classroom.
Sun rays shone warmly
above, soon to reveal
the twenty-six halos of
innocent souls.

There you are Dad
on our cobbled deck
splayed out in my favorite chair,
our nearly feral cat
content to be on your lap.
You hold up the perfect tomato
so round and red-ripe—
I can almost smell it.