In the House
and gets savage. He yawns: too
many conversations in one bed.
He gets to be excited about things,
builds a fort under the table,
he brings things he loves
into the house.
The sound of a bike
bell indoors can startle, but clear
the air. It all looks beautiful until
I put my glasses on, I am not ashamed.
The lightest wind blew in Union Square
and a giant oak tree let go of all its yellow leaves.
Look, he says, the whole world is sparkling
but I know he means his watch
which has just been shined by
The vague mathematics
of the day; what we get rid of;
what we bring into the fold of our
lives; leaning into a stranger inadvertently
on the subway as it comes to a sudden stop.
When I was a boy I collected
matchbooks in an old blue Adidas shoebox.
When I visited my father two years ago,
I threw them all away because I feared they would
spontaneously combust and burn my
father's house down.