apt. 200

i pulled a name tag off a mailbox

in the foyer of my apartment building.

robert oakes.

he lived above my ceiling

but i can't recall his face

and all i know

i learned with my ear flat against the door

cops talking in the hallway

or peering between curtains

as his parents limped past

or whispering with neighbors

like he might hear.

but ghastly details and family grief

rumors and gossip

do nothing to explain.

robert wailed in his mothers' arms

the day he was born

discovered with wonder

his own stubby limbs

and yesterday

he bled until he died

on a folding chair in the shower

crimson spreading

turning black

like the gaping maw of hell.

and i can't stop staring

maybe i overheard a conversation

or someone pointed you out,

but i knew your name before we met.

and i can't think back

to who clasped who's hand first

only that we left as a group

and came back a pair.

and this morning i was sleeping

and then i stopped

but i can't recall the moment

when my mind slipped from clouds of sleep

and joined the new day.

a mirror hangs on the closet door

and when i sit in bed we make eye contact.

startled, we search myselves

and feel exposed by my own searching.

then we look down

and write two poems.

rusty brown guardrails

flash past in a blur on a

gray thanksgiving day.

somehow

i scratched my eye

or dried it out

and it stings and aches

and i can't think straight.

my forehead hangs

like a bag of sand

my eye like a hot coal

glows dull red

shedding moisture,

robe of steam.

i can hear it hissing.

things were better

short relief

made nothing change.

blurred world

of aching glow

i can't see straight

or think.

ducks on the pond

twins, clones

interchangeable, they follow each other in circles.

i watch one among the others

indistinguishable, just a bird

and when it turns down,

spirals beneath the surface,

i can tell where it used to fit

for just a moment

before the ripples fade,

the gap is filled,

its lost among

the pattern of the waves.

fox and the hound

on weak ankles

stumbles and grins,

looks two ways at once

then bolts!

head back

elbows waving

tail swings orange

tipped with white

like a backwards marker.

footsteps wander

like a bent wheel.

sporadic and charming.

i stand perplexed,

watch her grow smaller,

then the spark lights me too--

i bolt!

cloth ears flap against my cheeks

the sidewalk pounds,

glows like street lamps,

and the fox hovers in the hounds' eye

like the center of the universe.