Even
The quiet of our dark
cupboards, my olecranon
memorized.
The still talking
sycamores
dwelling in one
another's leaves,
above any thought.
Our stay even,
bending as easily
as my elbow, opening
without so much
as the creak of an old
cabinet door.
*************
Walking Past Bryant Park
Purses clutched to chests, no one
even looking at me, no one
daring to ask why I'd stopped,
why I was standing there
staring up at dear Mr. Chrysler,
suddenly struck dumb with certainy
that I was okay, we're okay,
that God was in the sidewalk.
*************
King
The vial of your bellybutton,
its headiness of mushroom,
earth. I know it
like salmon know
where they were born
and return to it:
the color up of underbelly,
the ache ballast,
the dark strum heading
to both destiny and disaster.
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