don't imagine the chalk
outline of his body but saffron
handprints my nephews
etch on driveways, bright
beaks of ducklings, the delicate
daffodil & peace we squander
because it feels somehow
false & simple like a coupon
& there's no crimson thumbprint
swirled against the lens only
the Yes of a world
unfuzzed, having seen so much
poetry & terror which is
an accurate summary of our lives
on jackhammer migraine days
gusting hail when dynamite
roars through the sacred
guts of churches or just
poetry & terror in the cubicle
on days we crave sky after the subway's
long claustrophobia beneath
gravestones & angled pipes & perhaps
you pass me in the crosswalk
as its timer blinks from green
to orange, only seconds left
before the red palm strands
all the leather briefcases
& you fumble yours, papers splattering
so together we gather what we can
while taxis shriek their horns
at two strangers on their knees