Halfway through the route, we’d come upon his car,
rear gate agape, Bach aerating the silence,
a lightship docked among the palm fronds
of an indifferent neighborhood mapped by
a developer who had long since died. He tosses
us another forty papers, packed roughly
and quickly so that we never finished later
than six.
Sarajevo (Summer 2016)
She pointed, two hundred meters: there. I was
fifteen. We were drinking wine outside
a bookshop. The shelling lasted
all night. The ruby-colored sunset, the river
close. The theater so crowded
people sat in one another’s laps. Bombs fell so near every
few minutes, parts of the stage splintered.
I’m leaning on a car, cool
metal, smoked glass. The actors,
she tells me, didn’t flinch, didn’t miss
a single line. The audience
didn’t move, didn’t
make a sound.
You’re here; you survived;
and you’re there —
floor shaking, streets buckle —
watching a play that
for eternity will last.
Swap Meet
Stingrays black as bats,
hoods forked open flashing piston heads, Lincolns
with suicide doors,
throat-red interiors, steering wheels
spoked like spiderwebs —
we admired the catch, cowl induction
scoops spit-ragged clean, Mustangs with
cherry-red drive shafts, VWs small and tidy,
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