december

i.

the city opens its eyes on the day, the servers up early
carrying  trays of ham too pink, cheese in thin

orange slices,   coffee steaming from chipped goblets,

platters of crusted doughnuts.  morning chatter dims 
televised voices.  fires on the screen.  at the
crumpled margins of the heart  there is a little

girl knocking with scruffy fists.  she is gone before the
light changes. everyone munching their breakfast as if

nothing were coming to an end

ii.

we drive toward the border

where east and west touch gently

like the softest of fingertips.

there is something deep in the shallow

of your eyes   and I move closer,

already knowing you, not the type

 to be trusted. out on the plains

 it is early winter,  the 
bison are scavenging.  whatever

you imagine me to be, it

is unlike this long trail of 

stories that brought me  here. in 
the clay and fire of an afternoon, i

wind slowly backwards

toward the center of

life

iii.

at the corner,  & back on foot.
to return to the city is always
half heartbreak.   pigeons
and  peeling walls, a bus
spewing its  tar out  into

 the crowd.   desire for
beauty undoes us again
and again.  a hoary morning
and something too sad to be
put to music. i cradle this

last gentle medicine to

my bosom, this sweet child

 who has lost all chances

 of survival