The closet in her room
remains as she left it
clothes losing their dark
interest. Ghosts in the dust.
From our window, grosbeaks
and buntings tangle into flight. The hours count
earlier now, because of the way they are lit.
He freezes, tries not to look at me and places
his hand over his mouth as this boundless
sound spills out, his eyes bubbly blue champagne,
while his body shakes and shivers in happiness.
The day proceeded to turn over heavily, with the sun appearing to be bolted to a chink of sky between morose gray clouds. Poor Boston, poor humble Providence, all those rivets of history to our genesis as a nation graying in the ancient countryside.
Sitting at the table with the paper birds,
she unfolded mine and began to read.
I couldn’t make out a word
she was saying.
I could talk
Two hours past midnight with
My father in the steelworker
Idiom of his city.