Multi Verse

There’s no relief like the multiverse.

Knowing, for instance, that across some stellar distance

I am, right now, at the Paris Ritz

And not a desk downtown.

That in another dimension at age twenty-nine

I am deserving of my own best intentions;

That there a dog waits wagging at my front door.

And in one of infinity stories,

You have nothing to be sorry for.


From Ben Nevis to the N Line

How easily I am back

Strapped safe in the seatbelt of my affection for you,

As if I am still

Sputtering across springtime Scotland

Riding in a rented Renault

From seaside to glen,

My father at the wheel while Ben

Nevis streaks across the window

In its rust and chalk-dripping white

And on my iPod plays the one about the girl

Who loves the guy.

But even now as my nose fills

Not with the dirt and pollen of Alban earth

But with the scent of chemical cleaner

The forgotten hamburger box

The overdone cologne

And the purple yellow graffiti

Rising to meet me

I am happy to be riding the dark NQ line home

Below ground

To the one I really love.



My dirt-high elbows rest atop the soil

though seeds stick still under my nails.

Be that as it may, all that’s left to do now

is watch for the rain again.

In another month

you have laid love over my life

the way a mother covers a

sleeping child with a light soft sheet

The same way rain resists

becoming a sleet.

Who better then than you to

take the hammer from my hand

and replace it with a pen?


The Gift

She wound up using seven men

cramming for the final exam,

which she felt in her gut was

a slamming-door story of love

that went:

“Twenty failing fingers couldn’t hold

drifting continents and promises taut.”

Imagine her surprise, then,

that her mastery of suspicion

was useless as her armory full of eyerolls.

That, in fact, he had only taken so long to arrive

because he had been around the world

collecting back for her the bits of herself

she had traded like cheap beads

for the love of everyone else.

And now that he was here,

how he required no more effort

than allowing him to hand her self back to her whole.

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That night her floor welcomed her criss-crossed legs,

her hands that ran against the grain as she sat

cupping in them the gravity of a decade,

the pieces of a bowl repeatedly broken.

She eyed each shard like a museum item

reciting its place in her life’s timeline,

testing an edge or two against tougher skin

and wondering how it had ever got in.

At last she joined them back together,

each part with veins of melted gold.

And when at last she saw it harden,

she put it on her mantel forever.




Mutual Friends, Subway

She is holding hands with my old friend David,

who I’ve directed on many occasions —

And Alexandre presses against a blue-jean vest

when he also rests on my bedside table.

At 8th Street Jane and Oscar and William appear,

and with them Emma and Ernest and Lear.

Near the west village, Dylan Thomas gets off,

But Scott sits with us ’til Central Park South.