New Jersey

I’ve been meaning to type you
how the pavement’s littered blue
like a hammer-hit thumbnail or a mouth
that’s about to chomp on a raspberry blow pop,
the burnt horizon of the city.


I remember the clumsy coffee
cup in my hands
and that I still stumble through street traffic,
stumble through crowds of people as they toss
for the garbage can and miss—


but clunks to the ground
have always amused me:


without you here I’m corrupted and lonely


and I can’t remember the last time
I kept someone as tight as Tupperware
and wasn’t sorry.



I watched this couple share a lollipop
outside the Metro-North, strawberry the wrapper
said, and shoving it into each other’s mouths
the stick could have disappeared
entirely and I bet they wouldn’t have noticed.

I remember burning my tongue
and questioning must this always happen
and I can’t elaborate on the feeling except
that it was quick— like the way that holy ghost
I don’t believe in passes through a room:

without you here I suppose I should be discreet
but I’m still tired of semi-colons for space,
desire for lack of commas,

and I’ve been meaning to type
about the tight-rope, how concepts like love
make me choke.