for Georgette

The gate of your studio is locked
though the mail comes and goes.

I play the coward:
last month I left a note that I wrote
on a styrofoam cup that I found
on the curb: came by, it said
thinking of you.

I know you're waiting -
not for me, but for his yahrzeit,
and the walls are bare.
White canvas, a void you can't fill: an imprint
of flesh on the bed,
of hands in clay, and the smell
of him, fading.

But walk a little way in the orchard,
and you see how the tree's roots extend.
The children,
coined and partnered now, and parenting,
aligned in their beauty, their faces
speak to you now of him.
In row after row of days
their hands still reaching up,
the seed bears forth,
and spring rushes over us.
And surely the people are grass.

You taught me
how to put stones on a grave
and I am foolish
but I stand here at your gate,
for the moment,
with empty hands.

monroe street, 9 a.m.

there is no mistaking blood
on the sidewalk, if it's fresh
and each time reminds me of the last
and of the city:
people walking
their feet keep moving
in spite of the wounds
and they take the straight paths
whether or not
they have some place to go.

this time, it's a blood trail
just a splash, like a raindrop
every ten paces or so.
(last time was on the bridge,
the splashes were larger,
closer together,
and ended in a pool beneath
the bus bench.)

tiny drops, really
like a bloody nose -
a young man, I'll bet,
walking fast.
they never carry tissues. just let it drip.
it will stop
on its own.
Or, perhaps, it was
the man two seats in front of me last week
who could not stay awake.
full bus, aisle seat, the woman
beside him pressed against the window,
not looking.
he was doubled over his knees,
nodding, and seemed about to land
in the aisle. I hoped hard for a bench
to open up, so he could lean.

And it did, he switched;
now right before me. I could smell
how much he needed a safe place.
he kept jerking upright:
wouldn't even rest his head on the side
of the bus, why? wake with a start,
furiously rubbing his nose, and one eye
and he turned, his hood
sliding part way back, and I saw
the dirt and blood on his skin.
hunted.

but today it was probably some punk
instead; allergies, you know?
no one sees.