but I know something has closed
a door, a chance, an end I cannot tell yet
I walk in this city without giving any attention
to the fact that my body matches the cracks
of the pavement:it is tiny and needs maintenance
the wind is pregnant with mist and moist
mosquitoes and a sense of misfits
a march together clothed in yellow-and-black-T shirts
I cannot read the directions here
everything is straight and full
yet nothing is even
not even the myths of the streets: a blue eyed stranger,
the passport burner, preaches his own death to reach God,
yet awes over the karats in my rosary
the street, whose name I never heard
teems with tarot readers, toddlers and tears
it rains as often as I cry: unwillingly, without expectation
I do not want to talk of other cities here,
the way my body
melted and was remade by the faces of others, elsewhere
it changes here and with words
a sharp edge of a knife that stubs me
as I kiss it, this literature, this desire, this madness
at loss next to the Iowa river I note
my grief in you is now two and a half years old
if it was a boy, it would be calling your name
but I won't tell you and I do not confess to the river
my ability to fall hard
without breaking any bones.
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