What will I write about? Fleeting recollections?
The leaf motif on the duvet? Shadows created
by the streetlights? They do not leave, they merely
wait till the lights get weary and fall asleep. That
is darkness, heavy and thick with patience
because it has nothing to lose, not even envy.

We were more alive during the war.

What am I to do with you, fake woman
who carried me, blurred face who looked at me,
cracked pot that threw me away? Pointed heels
on the cobblestones shining in the rain, their hard
morning cheeks cleaned by sleep. Afternoons
are for leaving things behind, easily, so many stones
with faces, so many faces looking like stones.

Anna was Anna, but Claire was complicated.

What about the usual moon? Someone noticed
that it was spiraling away, year after year a little
further, each time the breadth of a fingernail,
a marble down an endless slope, useless dilations.
Will the lovers notice? Will the turtles arrive?
Fewer eggs for the fascist gulls, less bigotry.

I could take a drive to the pliant, indifferent sea.