There was a time when mornings were defined
by bicycles, and sturdy girls who rode them
to their office jobs through cold, damp, still dark
Flanders winter mornings: full of laughter,
as they lingered in the downstairs hall;
sweater sleeves pulled down to fingertips,
bare, unshaven legs chapped flaming red.
A time to pass the shell-pocked fronts of houses,
and see, and yet not see; look past the scars,
wash blood from clotted blood, put stone on stone,
restore the earth, rebuild and resurrect,
and do not ask whose blood, what earth, which God,
but hope that something had been learned in blood.
There was this time, one time, and then it passed.
Two Love Stories
Her Princeton MFA, his partnership.
A turquoise choker with a silver clasp,
two Breuer chairs, an aunt’s pied-a-terre,
a Baskin woodblock print. An opening
at Sotheby’s, a brightly patterned vest,
a small tattoo, the scent of cloves, cocaine.
A nose once mangled in a rugby match.
The Parthenon, Antarctica, Beijing.
Her denim wedding skirt, his Zuni blood,
a way of always laughing after sex.
Two spotted dogs, a uniform, a cat
that jumps on stranger’s laps, some paperbacks.
A chance to leave the pueblo far behind.
A neatly folded flag, a body bag.