—and the teaspoons
you gave me
are tadpoles running
through my fingers
in dishwater, oh
not really—
unless
the traffic
on Race St. is
a multi-colored chain,
or a pigeon flock
is scattered cards
winging their numbers
away, or
a car door
screeling open
in icy wind
is a seagull
crying over the lot—
and who is
facing me
and always was
comes through me,
a melody
luring me in
like a velvet dress
or a dark pond
that injures me—
and I never
hear over three-
thousand miles
that you’re some-
where else till I read
“Itemized Calls” like
breaking china—
even if
I stop dancing,
even if
I start
laughing
at photos
of accidents
in the papers.