The room was with me—
the subway tile, my railway kitchen,
the window plant too.
I didn’t look.
I tore off June, went directly to it.
I’ve been murdered and plowed under, all
the above, all the way.
To die and to know you died,
to die this way.
Someone neutral said, Things are what they are.
But what are they?
I know I had a chair I loved,
and I still have it.
Incrementally eased out,
there’s no making nice.
Introduce myself as if we never met.
Or people asking, Oh do you know S or E?
What? Fuck you. Only, I only said, Yes, we do.
J says, “We get lost in life, but life always knows where we are.”
We recognize the days or we don’t.
Papered-over winter. Cross-town traffic summer. Three years
is one answer,
as bold knife
and fork is another.
Ghosts aren’t ridiculous; it’s only the ridiculous ghosts that are.
July, this calendar page. Silver dust on my lips.