Fall falls faster than phone calls
I forget to return. They slip,
missed, as afternoons burn,
smoldering, into evenings.

(we sift through the ashes for survivors)

I left, swept myself down snowy
subway station steps,took one train
to another, till, home, I find a plastic carton
filled with love letters and ticket stubs under my bed.

(I found a poem in arabic and a pressed black-eyed susan)

January, white-skied, I barely felt it leave.
The city blocks shuttle wind fresh as
a new wound, cut it like granite into
icy streams that trace streets that
frost my backbone

(I lost my favorite green sweater)