Weird, alone, I sit in this house,
right broken foot notwithstanding,
or standing. My wife and daughter
both gone to tangent. The fake leather
chair and the lamplight surround me.
The sound of a mower making pretty
for the neighbors. Pretty or petty—
who cares, it’s all appearance. I think of
my friends only months entrenched
in Brooklyn, especially Jane, who is ever
and Ohio. She wrote the saddest letter
of her life on a train, with references
to Plato, what can anything mean?
Everything is mean; the dog growls
at runners. We are but marks on the face
of the skyway, a drawing of the infinite, yet
perishable particulars. I paint here the gate
in my mind out to sea and there hope
for monsters and possible returns.
Maybe life is best next to mice in a nest,
or maybe with exploding in a con-
stellated glee. Mine is a fog of chairs
and walls, typewriter ribbons, and trying
not to falter, not to muddle forever
the beginnings and ends. But yours,
Jane, is massive to match your affections,
back and forth beneath the city with a store
of varnished talent. I’m sitting here broken
and thinking you’re enlightening, and in
lightning . I want you to know it,
my silly heart goes out. Ours
is a friendship no distance can diminish.
Even now I see your features in an idyll
raging fire. The house closes in
and my foot neatly throbs. I miss you
as you miss me, and the noumenon
between us. All my dumb love,
then a siren.