On Vehicles

In Central Park, I find Death

and How to Outlive It sodden on the dark ground. I record hastily

that book jackets become flexible when left to soak,

and that it can be hard to tell, from my back,

how the rain is falling. Today,

a lesbian with a round face reassured me

that academia is a gay friendly field. Tonight,

I will use the kitchen to make muffins,

which I know from experience will be heavy and taste too much of lemon.

A misplaced Thursday retains its anecdotes. It’s like printmaking.

Each time, I think the ink will last for an additional

and phantom transference.

That morning, I finished an absurdist Czech novel

with a hexed narrator. Every woman he saw,

he described the size and manner

of her hanging breasts. Someone who owns

a puddle-gray truck drives over the grass

tipping. It is raining enough that there are no mosquitos out,

despite the tender bright scar over my right eye.

Things in the past do not appear further away,

but they smell stronger, and become less predictable.