“And I saw it didn’t matter who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone. The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty of the Iranian attendant, the thickening clouds–nothing was mine. And I understood finally, after a semester of philosophy, a thousand books of poetry, after death and childbirth and the startled cries of men who called out my name as they entered me, I finally believed I was alone, felt it in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo like a thin bell. And the sounds came back, the slish of tires and footsteps, all the delicate cargo they carried saying thank you and yes. So I paid and climbed into my car as if nothing had happened– as if everything mattered–What else could I do?”

“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language / And next year’s words await another voice.”

“think of you first. & then I will think of you again:”

“Perhaps, we are always hurtling our body towards / the thing that will obliterate us, begging for love / from the speeding passage of time,”

“All along this muscled kiss, this brilliant mess, yes, let’s.”