Poem 7: Trinity at Dusk, Sunday

A citadel on a cross-town street,
cars and their tail lights streak by.
Is this all I can do? A poem so
end-stopped, so concerned with capturing
the last light of an early November sunset.
But there's no way, the orange and pink
on the windows of the turret above Sumner
Avenue, the azure sky: it slips away.
The lights from Asbury hall cast a studious
glow on the lawn. I can see one star
beyond the tower and its cell phone panels.
I must go in. I must stop imagining
croquet games on the green grass.
But how do I break this stasis?

Poem 6: A Photograph

A delivery truck
a crowd erupting onto the street
glass office towers, police cars
as you cross at an odd angle
parallax and shot from the hip
Grand Central Terminal leans in
a fusillade of flags
on a light post, a stone eagle
this is you, your hair on fire
blown over your sunglasses
red-center in your tag sale slicker
halfway across 42nd Street

Poem 5: Of Chance

Brown oak leaves, the last ones,
flutter at the far branches of their trees.
We stood on the trail, watching one fall,
watching its stutter and glide,
riding the currents and eddies of air,
of chance, with our eyes, with the leaf
as it feints toward us, then away, to settle
on the rustling carpet of the hillside.
Look, I said, and pointed. And even
tried to capture the moment on camera.
Hawks coasted by, tipping their tails
like ailerons in the wind. You said, "More!"
That would be nice, wouldn't it?
To rise up through these updrafts,
to go beyond the mere literal.
Hawks, come back! We have wings, too.
On this rocky ridge, on a bench,
in this partly cloudy town, shot through
with glimpses of sun, we watch closely
what's actually there. We say: more.

Poem 4: A Day Late

The thing is
I have to go with
what's in my head
right now. Whistling
down the hall, past
stone faced college students,
a guli-guli-guli-guli
ram sam sam.

Poem 3: Interstate

It's dark now, driving home
red tail lights, green highway signs
The road is its own city
dear neighbor, dear dashboard lit
in the next lane, is this
your exit? The radio says
all those workers, the radio says
every square state, every between
I'm here, staccato reflective
yellow, pavement, thinking
of the leaves on the trees
against the brilliant blue
sky, yellow stretching into
I'm here, down the ramp
my city at the city's end
stop lights, the donut shop
and up the hill, the moon

Poem 2: Every Fourth, Last, Now

Red is every fourth letter,
and the leaves on that fiery tree
across the street. Red is M,
red is A, which you pronounce E
and say it's for your name
which begins with the sound of I.
Red was your last color, and still
you say it slowly, quietly,
without the final D.
That hat we loved was red.
That color, in finger paint,
on your cheek. Apple, strawberry.
Purple was more fun to say.
Yellow, too. But fire trucks
and roses and that little bracelet
you pushed over my fingers
and onto my wrist and smiled:
red, all red, say it with me
now.

Poem 1: Kills Mice

Scratching in the wall kept us
from sleeping in our own bed
last night. I stood on a ladder,
wearing black gloves, peering
into the attic with a flashlight.
Wee timrous I, I'd called our friend
the squirrel guy. He said set traps.
So I did: black plastic jaws
set open with a dab of peanut butter.
Up in the attic, among the blown insulation,
there are artifacts from previous owners:
a humidifier in its box, wooden sides
of a bassinette and a box of Def-Con
("Kills mice," it says, matter-of-factly).
Last night, frustrated, standing on the bed,
I plotted tearing out drywall
to get at the noise, to stop it.
But this seems more sensible.
It was Halloween. We slept by the fireplace,
warming our toes. Today, our daughter
dressed up again in her giraffe costume.