The phone rang and the Wall fell.

Kommst du? Gudrun whispered
from a hotel overlooking cottonwoods, the Bahnhof,
tracks that ran each way but
to the sea.


I am stupid with the wind-rubbed passage,
reading channels cut in concrete
like a lifeline in a Saxon's palm,
like rifling that twists to north.

If it should rain, she said,
drive faster.


Campari and Dunhills,
the blood of spider bites.

In eclipse, she says,
nothing is lost.

Letter from Crete

I am reading Rilke, went the photo note:
knitted hands, eyes down, left,
woven basket filled with yarn,
prop for someone's crossed ankles.


The answerbox coughs out the day.
Jeffery, are you there?
The Rockies wrinkle at the knees.
No, my love, I breathe into the Chinooks.


My oldest child asks me: Is love like the night
we watched for satellites,
and you told ghost stories, laughed,
grew silent, grass marks on your palms?


I don't know how long I have been
at this stoplight near the bridgework by the Platte,
draped by cottonwoods, humming rush,
the car behind me patient
and the one behind him
and the one and the one and the one.