An indifferent shower makesthe grass nostalgic.

Birds sing. The world is openagain,

            the window turns green.                    

Thirsty and silly for wildcherry

blossoms, she sniffs the wind.

A transparent gray envelopsthe neighborhood.

Why does she always want

            to be someplace else?

The woman thinks of herfather,

            when he was a younger man.

She wished she’d known himthen.                                       

Last night, she stopped bythe sea

and had an overwhelming desire to leave.

            Seek Alt Route      Seek Alt Route

Abandon the bread crumbs.

Drop white pebbles to findyour way home.

            Thismundane world is all there is.

Like the reed cut from itsbed—

            that cry,

            that longing sound.

 “Everythinghad broken down, and new things had to be made out of fragments.”

                                                                                                —Kurt Schwitters

What value of x makes theequation below true?

I love you but I’m not inlove with you.

I love you the way I lovesomeone when I want sex.

I love you the way I lovethin-crusted pizza.

            [Soundtrackof your life goes here.]

            Thereonce was a girl who had a little curl.

Do not be seduced by:

Isn’t the beach lovely thistime of day? or

Care for a glass of chilledrosé? Olives?

            [Insertyour picture here, smiling.]

Sweetheart, everyone’sfaithful until they’re unfaithful.

Notice how easily the o candrop, replaced by an e and a.

Soon you will be news ateleven, an expiration date,

a page ripped out of his spiral bound life.

            Leave: from Old English – to be left over.

Leftovers.

            Johnnyby the ocean,

            Johnnyby the sea,

            Johnnyran off with a celebrity.

Curse his every body part.

            [Inserthis picture here.]

What is the probability thatthe arrow

will land on a section containing

an odd number both times?

            We are all in the dumps,

            Fordiamonds are trumps,

            Thekittens are gone to St. Paul’s.

Sometimes paper doesn’t burn,it smolders.

My father’s grave is close

enough to the road so

I wave when I drive by—

He is lying down and

can’t see me, but I picture

him in his coffin

wearing his good suit and glasses,

the change quiet in his pocket,

reading the paper. Sometimes

I can hear the clink

of his spoon as he taps the rim of his cup

after he has swirled his milk and sugar.

The paper might rustle.

He will clear his throat.Then

I imagine what he does notsay.