Originally published in Measure, Volume 3, Issue 1, 2008
I dreamt about a poet, disappeared
in 1955. It’s easier
to fall in love with those already dead.
It’s easier to want without a name:
an extra in a silver backless dress;
shoulders and knees that thresh the noontime sun
the first warm day of spring.
Who wrote the words
I never meant to do it with a penknife
in the stall? Who tapped the windowpane
then ran away? Who left the roses by
that broken grave, its dates green hieroglyphs?
The world is skimmed by unsolved mysteries,
most small and insignificant as words,
and we are all detectives in their wake.