over and over and over again.
Like that. His pose
in the photograph
always and always.
Now he’s at a funeral
and I’m reading about sex.
Tufted words. Ashy words.
Markets crumble and
cellphones arc and flounce
from hallway to hallway.
Obviously our word
has changed, been rocked
by yesterday’s horrific events.
Nostalgia. A gaping hole.
Train tickets in November.
Woody Allen’s Manhattan.
Tonight with candles.
Tomorrow in the shower
as we wash away the words,
chary and oblique.
