Yes, I was born along
the edge of things,
the marsh that holds the city,
migrant birds singing foreign
in the cattail grass, the whole
horizon a closed eye. Edgy,
they say, always on edge, yes,
how could it be otherwise.

2.
The letters I wait for
I have to mail myself,
stay up late to write them,
wait for the mailman
to bring them back
romanced by otherness and far.
Or, to be true to my seaside start,
I have a long, long conversation
with an oyster, the rugged kind,
from the south, makes me do
all the talking, I am both sides
at once and no shell to keep me safe.

3.
What a way to talk about a friend.
As if the whole world
were a waitress
you’re flirting with
in some midnight dive.
What a way to think
about philosophy, theology,
Gothic spires, sleek
hips of Aphrodite by Phidias.
You get me all confused—
one night Olson and I
walked all the way
along the Santander corridor
to the Bay of Biscay to see
Britain far away, walked back
to his place in the Fort.
Weird how distances disperse
while humans talk,
cup of black coffee, hidden Grail.

4.
I hope I’m happening you.
You’re there,
between the closet and the sink,
cigarette smoke dangling above
but who’s smoking?
We don’t do that anymore,
it’s like the Roller Derby
or Robin Hood, lost in time.
But there you are, intimate
authority, leaning on the sink.
If it were up to me, every
kitchen would be full of chairs
so we could sit and think
about the food, and what we mean
by feeding it to one another,
the whole epistemology of choosing
what to eat. Dark matters.
It’s your fault. You make me think.

29 September 2020