You must rock your pain in your arms
until it’s asleep, then leave it
in a darkened room

On a day of windy transition, one season to the next,
you spoke of helping your mother close her house,
of the choices you had to make—what to discard, 

They take you through my life
one poem at a time,
memory’s beast raging
through the pages

Consider the white space
between words on a page, not just

She’s given up sex.
She’s given up travel.
She’s given up the rush

in the black hood, 
come! Pierce 
my heart

In the end we are no more than our own stories: 
mine a few brief passages in the Book, 
no further trace of plot or dialogue. 

I am haunted by the names
of foreign places: Lvov and its bells;
Galway with its shimmer of green;

For Jews, the Cossacks are always coming.
Therefore I think the sunspot on my arm
is melanoma. Therefore I celebrate

Though we're pages apart this time,
just being in the same issue
is like being at a party together.

Set in the silence of pure perspective,
the ideal city has no people in it,
only buildings. On these streets Order rules

I saw my name in print the other day
with 1932 and then a blank
and knew that even now some grassy bank

Is there no music now
except the chime
of coins in the pocket