—In the empty city of proud joy you lay awake.
And why do you think you were called into this world,
refuser.
You whom I could not save.
You sat in the day cafes and the night cafes
and it helped to look at the lover in his beauty,
to hear delicious sentences, his sentences
had fingertips that soothed the daily wars in you,
you overheard marigolds
, by night, the chloroform bushes,
in the upstairs cafe, lowered cubes of sugar
till the upper half dissolved,
felt the oven’s fury
as the firelord removed the little pizza—so solid
it would “stick to your ribs”
and you loved the food groups, the dough
went down, stick, swallow
bounce-bounce-bounce, bounce,
till it reached the sacred hollowness in you . . .
No really.
Why do you think you were called into this world.
Did you, have to, did you
have to be a something every single minute?
In the morning the mailman steps lightly over his shadow,
his mace can going tinny clink-clink
against the keys. The Friday doctor drives by
telling stories to his earphone, whole
Italies of them, and he feels special,
the fallen angel flutters down
past the eye on the dollar bill,
through the rings of Saturn and the spiral world,
he wanted God to love him but God didn’t
if I’m not loved I will keep falling,
if I’m not loved I’m empty nothing (nothing)
and your job was always to be there
when he landed, helpless in his fury,
remember lying on the cool ground in grade school,
the seed and the crumbled moments filling you in,
that wasn’t so bad now was it, non-non-non-non-
light, non-God, non-mommy,
non anything near;
just lie there. That’s it.
You were called to be loved
when you weren’t here—