An indifferent shower makes the grass nostalgic.

Birds sing. The world is open again,

            the window turns green.                    

Thirsty and silly for wild cherry

blossoms, she sniffs the wind.

A transparent gray envelops the neighborhood.

Why does she always want

            to be someplace else?

The woman thinks of her father,

            when he was a younger man.

She wished she’d known him then.                                       

Last night, she stopped by the sea

and had an overwhelming desire to leave.

            Seek Alt Route      Seek Alt Route

Abandon the bread crumbs.

Drop white pebbles to find your way home.

            This mundane world is all there is.

Like the reed cut from its bed—

            that cry,

            that longing sound.

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

                                                                                                    —Kurt Schwitters

What value of x makes the equation below true?

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

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

I love you the way I love thin-crusted pizza.

            [Soundtrack of your life goes here.]

            There once was a girl who had a little curl.

Do not be seduced by:

Isn’t the beach lovely this time of day? or

Care for a glass of chilled rosé? Olives?

            [Insert your picture here, smiling.]

Sweetheart, everyone’s faithful until they’re unfaithful.

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

Soon you will be news at eleven, an expiration date,

a page ripped out of his spiral bound life.

            Leave: from Old English – to be left over.

Leftovers.

            Johnny by the ocean,

            Johnny by the sea,

            Johnny ran off with a celebrity.

Curse his every body part.

            [Insert his picture here.]

What is the probability that the arrow

will land on a section containing

an odd number both times?

            We are all in the dumps,

            For diamonds are trumps,

            The kittens 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 not say.