Garbage Day

You knew, didn’t
you? I did,
when you
drove me
to Scarborough,
took the
the elevator – and then,
all at once
you said
nothing,
no facetious remark about
the garden of piss,
as though, you,
after many years,
had become
inured to it,
that it only symbolized
the thing you were ashamed
to say.
And when we came
to her door, you knocked,
a signal, it turned out,
for you to turn
and leave, and go to
another door –
and for a long time
she did not come to
my door,
so I waited
in the red carpet
tunnel
for forty years
writing this very long poem
with a pen and paper
I pulled
from
the garbage bag
that you had said to
pack my shit with.

Mariela

I never called you, did I,
before you died. Maybe,
I knew too much, already.
We made love
in that TV-lit motel room,
in Vermillion Bay,
left my glasses by the bedside
digital clock, afterwards,
as you and I lay together,
I saw through a part
of you: a few strands
of your hair, the blurry channel
I left on mute, cracked,
but too bright, too.

Eye

At the green edge
of the Atlantic
on a floor of shells,
like bullet casings,
you found a stone ,
a perfect circle,
partly air,
flat down
the middle.
You peered
through.
Only I saw,
inset,
the eye
of a
storm,
the jewell.