SYNCHRONICITY ALL OVER AGAIN

It would always begin by not

being there, hiding behind the lot

that just sold for twice the reserve—

as in echo will get you bounce,

pouncing to the growl of faded

tunics flayed on the piano by

old-time losses and newly garnered

spools. I put this disc on before

but it never sounded like this,

sounded like you cared, sounded

like the ache in artichoke or the

service at a schul. Don’t even go

there, we’ve been over that

a trillion times, and I still don’t

see how this connects, how

you expect that I would

understand, or even go full

fathom for your lugubrious

form of wit. It would always

begin that way, as if you’d

heard it without listening,

somewhere in the inner spaces

of your disattention, the only

place paradise has been known

to coalesce, just moments before

the rent is dew.