Careful Ophelia on the streetcar, kissing him.
Your mother can’t keep her mask on straight.
Outside the liquor store: I love you. I don’t
love you. I love you I don’t love. Moving Day.
She sleeps on perfumed cement. Her cold ear
waits for music, his hard clown shoes in the street.
Elevator mirrors, shopping bags, dishevelled pigeons.
Malachite, obsidian for sale. Come closer.
He hums inside his solitary body, flourishes
on the subway, unfolds stiff newspaper wings.
Ships, slugs on the horizon.
The sun slips down in you.
Daughter, let the raccoon in.
Hold his cold hand.