where i am, infinite, to think
i departed you. all the little
things like cinnamon, may. not.
have meant much. sore from
premature endings and endless
beginnings. no other way. could.
this. happen. born detached
in the quiet house. now hushing
all sounds of joy. a surge in the
streetcar. divided by bivalent
pull of ambient sound. in the cafe
only one window opens to snow.
the rest don’t. open. on the piano
not all keys are equally allowed.
at the chalet, a father-and-famulus
battle in forthright Perestroika.