A single cell that no longer exists created me, 

ash left from my parents’ fire,

a piece of seaweed clinging to a rock 

in the changing tide, dust, I’m told, dust from distant stars. 

My open hand, so many lines, phalanges

joints, puckers and scars. I grip the doorknob, turn, 

fight the light through a wetness of yesterday’s storm. Today, 

grey, moist and quiet, I’m rescued by  fatigue. 

The refuge of being busy resolves into forgetfulness.

There is only so much I can do. No matter how I turn

it is to. Leeward. toward a ruddy dawn, this 

celestial stuff spread so vast as to make meaning

meaningless. If I break in befuddlement

it is usually one of my bones, metatarsal, radial, humerus, rib.

I heal, I break, I heal.

Dog Days

Heat ravels, silty from city air, subway 

chudders underfoot. Warm wind, damp,

my neck hair moves by itself.

Tapping my feet, my forehead, sinewy 

shift to vehicular music, aromas,

heady mingles of pizza, curry, felafel. 

The light changes. I cross over. I find 

peace in these concrete silos,

the loneliness is so familiar.

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