Then we walked down to the river and noticed the bridge
carved up into compliant sections, one pushed south: no passage.

Disassembled—or to dissemble, as in an eighteenth century novel, to set aside
notions of truth and embroider false leaves below falser flowers. Having lied,

then the near present opens at seams, we can change our lives
as we've always been asked to, yes so the tower crumbles but what saves

us will unfurl lotus-like in the center of this, I promise. In Grand Central I watched a man
& woman kiss—but was he reading news above her shoulder? Span

of her embrace over sports scores, his eyes divide along an inside line, private life
betrays any promise. I was so tired then. And I will always love you. Since the light

is dim, what can you see of me but turning limbs. The heart, for certain,
remains hidden—I'm sorry. But we didn't even want to cross the river then,

we were busy in antique stores telling stories, walking in old rooms
with all their secret drawers empty but priced high as if something still were in them.         

Dreamliner still on schedule, Boeing says
Nectromancy. The perception of the inner nature of things.

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Given a choice, I'd rather have a used thing because it has history. This goes for language too. But you can't decorate your house with this stuff, I've been thinking lately; you don't wear it, it wears you. For further reading, watch a dance, or watch some people out the window, framing it as a dance. —This poem is for Jay.