My desire for there to be an afterlife

equals my conviction there isn’t one,

sing as one may, alone or in unison,

“When we all get to heaven.”

A heaven less screwed up than earth

where we long, and love and hurt.

An eternal present from which we look

down at the past; everyone has one

and everyone’s isn’t exactly alike.

My Darling Izzie,

This city is so different from the West,

where the land tints

and weathers the people.

Or rather, everyone here is shaped

by a land somewhere else.

In that sense, I resemble the New Yorkers.

I start to view Nebraska

differently. The faces I grew up with

begin to soften and meld

into characters.

Wrecked on opium, Thomas DeQuincey

sees Coleridge’s foot as a goldfish

in an aquarium missing its walls.

The young Alfred de Musset is touching

George Sand’s left nipple

with a sable watercolor brush.

“Tu m’aimes?” he asks her.

“Et toi?” She turns her head

and blows cigar smoke in the face

of the Paris dawn.

We have school tomorrow, Kyle.

I’m sorry to take you back to Wichita

from your family in Chicago. I made Emmalie

take a picture of you and Agnes sleeping

in the backseat. I’ve just smashed a monarch

on 36 highway, and the Sun is fleeting.

1.

abe, it’s been a century and a half

since we last talked. how the heck are ya?

my mom got rid of the bunk beds

when i was 10. i didn’t marry that girl

i liked in the first grade. feelin’ okay.

I’ve been to the Lincoln Memorial quite a few times with the childish, stubborn understanding that Abe was buried there, that a memorial required an actual corpse to be complete, something to mourn beyond a field of marble embossments, but it came to my attention, really through a logical progression where I first noted the openness of the space, my pure and complete map of every portico, every chamber and the severity of its molding, like a mausoleum, a place designed to eventually fall into disrepair, to fall in ruin against the summer sun, heavy rain threatening the indifference of its tennessee marble;

在地铁车厢里

一个轮廓

手握着的格子袋

披着黑色的外衣

衬衫交错的图案

足下棕色的皮鞋

饮下的泪是所有

曾经灌进喉咙的苦水

抚养过的寄生虫

墙上干瘪的金鱼标本

绿叶裂开的筋脉

雪花深埋的寒冷

Watching birds crisscross the solemn sun

Quivered in the reflection of gentled waves.

Far away cobalt mountains stood hushed and frozen.

Mellow ivy, cool grass, beneath the feet, wet sand.

Everything around me shimmered

through my irises—lights, colors, a dun sky

seamlessly curved into the earth, neon attires

strewn on wet tracks, outlines

of shadows scudding across faces, but if

some faces reminded of other faces

I would awake, suddenly discovering myself

against the immense expanse

of a city I could escape only with my soul.