The
phone rings & there’s no one here to answer it
I
shave while gazing into an empty mirror
No
questions are asked & no answers are offered
I was reading Ovid
trans. Rolfe Humphries
every blank page
Indiana University Press, copyright 1955
renewed in 1983, All rights reserved
bubbling up from cracked pavements
& rattling around inside the faded colors
of an old instamatic snapshot of me & my sisters
standing next to a two-tone 1962 Ford Mercury
in the driveway at 1211 Venice Blvd
when I was maybe six or seven (Les Poètes de sept ans)
cursing softly under my breath
my hair red like the rust that never sleeps
“The Poems” already bubbling up from the
cracked pavement
I would take you there
but it is an address that no longer exists
& who knows what ever happened to that car
embalmed in yellowgold light
