a squirrel in the hallway
the single pink rose blossom in a freeze
a man on horseback in traffic
things that don’t belong
but do anyway


the shores of Ischia are calling
that city of flour and salt
out beyond the waterfront
the waves breaking
over a song


My grandfather told us about the war once
his grit voice, the thin of him
rocking in the grey recliner
next to a brass lamp you could touch to turn on
one tap and it would illuminate the man
I only remember smiling that one night


the donut shop in my old neighborhood is closing
where we showed up so late that morning
out from under covers, walking under autumn trees
the first morning of finding you again