the Baby Over
falls in the window-light
I shake out the rugs.
ex enters, kisses my cheek and lays down
other man's baby.
tired today, she says, and it is cold,
her cheeks glow.
window is open too wide and the wind
newspapers on the table.
approach Aria, the baby—too small
reveal features of a man I've never met.
find only her mother's blondness, a few freckles.
she said. And
we promised to stay
said. Showing the girls out,
want to present gift—animal crackers, maybe.
I'm sure my shelves are bare,
besides, Aria hasn't grown a tooth.
low, calcium-bursting cloud hovers
their car as they drive off—a perfect
but for a missing curve. I remember now
she'd devour an entire Granny Smith apple,
its dark seeds. And her knack
blink slowly, to acknowledge yes, the universe
us this way, to this juncture, this.
close the front door.
in place of a biological end,
intimacies draw my way.
painting tilted in the living room, that's one.
it, the drifts of snow sloping along
barn, stark and sturdy. The pint
sweet applesauce I find, later, inside the cupboard.
learn the ipod is dead
refineries fogged in summer rain,
highway trees. Inside,
must resemble the other passengers
necks bow as cut sunflowers.
stranger handles silence,
as woodland creatures
and scuttle the shells of acorns,
come the muzzled cacophony
throat-clearings, the varieties
scapula—handle-bar of the chest,
of your bus-time rest—
cushions when sleep comes.
be fleshier and the dusk
if it must be gray,
buttress us. We leave
York and its handsome ugliness.