The condo held the rock star’s body like a puppet

and though it keeps small lawn

clean and circumspect as a crèche

when I walk past it coming home

from Blue Moon Tavern’s oil

painting of Theodore Roethke

I quiet

the possibility to pass

unnoticed

to hover like a phrase…

I only am beginning to feel love

now that faces are slipping into disuse

and also how hate may be given unseen

and perhaps the work is to abandon it like a shelter