Count Between the Raicho’s Calls to Calculate Lightning:

5.
The bird is singing just before
                                                 it gets eaten—
                                                                          flutes on the saw teeth of steak-                                                                                                           knives threaded from the gutter
                        to hear the way serration chimes.
                                                             Front stoop chatter rattles garbage cans:                                                                                                                                                            echoes geese left behind
             for the winter to keep frosted rooms
                                                                         company. In the front room, I sing
                                     the clear note of silver tapped against glass
                                                                                      for attention—you shave
wafer-thin almond cake, let the robins carry
                                on conversation for us, our manque trembling
                                                                                              on the edge of dessert spoons.

4.

The teakettle sirens us to the honey-onyxed kitchen: scooped-out grapefruit shells & black
coffee-grinds compost in the half-drained sink. From the satinwood hutch, the deserted
engagement gift remembers polkaing on hardwood to Unter Donner und Blitz—over the
mountainous curve of your shoulder, I marked how the model dancers whirled in music box
confines: to avoid a May wedding, donate trousseaux a week before—pawn the ring & flee.

3.

            Sidewalk pacing: diversion to keep the web between my fingers
                                                                                      from itching under hypoallergenic metal,
                        insomnia soothed by counting
                                                             streetlights, jaywalking at three a.m.
            On the fourth floor, I water geraniums naked, curtains open—
                        on ivory vellum, I draw exclamation points,
                                                                       then cross out save the date—made-up flight
                                     patterns doodled in the margins. You email me
a triptych of exotic places (Mallorca, the Amazon, Cambodia). I clip out
                                                                      pictures of the Alps, snow-capped
                                                                                   onion domes in St. Petersburg, celebrations
at Nalukataq & string them above my bed. Pinch pennies between my lips
                                                          to save on fountain wishes & learn to dry clean at home.

2.
Coup de foudre as geese fly south, honk homing songs to keep on course.
I dig for cash at the dry cleaner’s, jam my hip against the counter & cling

to an umbrella, two blazers, a winter coat:—your number
on the bottom of the receipt for five days with half-chewed gum.

Over sushi, you make a study of me: flushed cheek with teak walls,
reflection magnified in water glasses—

1.
           I pay for my own dinner, walk home alone,
                                  listen to brontide spill
                      over the cityscape, rustle through beer tabs, cigarette butts.
                                                                       Boil beans for the week
                                                                                                            & wait: how many rings
                                                            until my better self clicks on? Hello,
                                                                                                             you’ve reached—

         In his tiny corner, the hamster burrows deeper in woodchip dreams. I run
                           hot water in the cramped bathroom, draw myself bedtime
                                                              stories on the foggy shower door. When the power goes out,
                                       I paste glow-in-the dark stars on the south wall
                                                                                                  until they phosphor on.