

There is the rain on the copper
roofs, there is the click-shuff
of red heels on concrete, the voice
of a ruddy-faced neighbor
above, calling after her husband.
In their apartment the pillows
still sleep-dented and sour
with breath. The headless straws
of iris stalks hang above
the credenza, beside the battered
front door. There are the bridge’s
rust-water icicles, its bands
of moss seaming a forgotten
cobblestone sidewalk. There is
the river in thistle-gray cowlicks,
and the husband above it deciding.