TWO POEMS

I spell it large: Gloucester. It was her decade of love  
and mine, Le Beauport to Magnolia Pier, lending itself to the long poem  
pregnancy, polis, divorce, the Cut…   
Keith and his shittier-than-thou lobster boat   
and that time you took Dave’s car for a joyride;   
sitting on the steps at 28 Fort Square to read the Maximus Poems,   
Olson, to us, like Lycidas to Milton —pastoral, in that regard 

and watching the dance moms at the YMCA, after squash,   
the tattle-bogle rigging of bodies: pilates, barre,   
then that poor high school basketball coach   
who slipped on the ice and died six feet from home.   
No, I couldn’t manage the swimming. Bought a raft.  
Ate prime rib at The Patio. It’s good to see you, Finny.   
It’s good to be seen. 

The tulpas come alive at night, sing and crowd the dock,   
once more caulk their shallops down at Rocky Neck.   
The sky’s terminal stare, orange moon, gray beach;    
it’s the hot debate. The postman knows it well —why a grown   
ass man collects feathers    
instead of taking a night boat to hell.  
It’s good to see you, Finny. It’s good to be seen.   
Six months and my squash game will be legendary. 

Trivia Night. Two by two, Reed’s lunchboxes   
dent our heads. (Is there amaretto in that?   
“The recipe’s from Edna’s,” Reed said.)   
And you of all people missing the question  
about America’s first poet, swapping Anne for Emily like   
a key party on Shore Rd. What a jolt, growing all those organs.  
We can hear the storm’s slobbering snout  
but we cannot find the door to Noah’s ark.  

When I first met the girl with Laurel Canyon eyes   
the conclave had just elected a new pope   
and the Fiddlehead Wars   
were taking place in Montpelier.   
Stories were contained in a single paragraph.   
Aroldis Chapman threw a 103.8 mph heater  
the fastest in Red Sox history, and Jiří was going on   
and on about the Czech avant-garde   
and how Zdenka had been a Young Pioneer   
back in the ‘80s. 

When I first met the girl with Laurel Canyon eyes   
she tied me to a tree and impaled me with arrows.   
Afterwards she said, “Baby, the world’s fucked up.”   
Remember that time you were palace intrigue   
and I was an aquarium of tiddlers?   
What’s up with all these Ivy League kids reading YA,   
anyway? Find my lazy eye, love.   
Pretty my party.   
When Pier Paolo Pasolini ate human flesh   
he quivered with joy. 

When I first met the girl with Laurel Canyon eyes  
I wrote Tumblr poems on her tits   
with titles like “Tiara” and “Cake” and “Pop.”   
She said, “Although it’s cold,   
Elizabeth Bishop leaves me colder.”   
I bought her a shawl made of afternoon angels.    
We talked about trout fishing in Vermont   
and whether or not Emily’s Bridge is really haunted,   
about the time she pretended to be a diary   
and gave me the key, 

she said when she was a kid   
her parents took her to Italy   
and she ate a piece of the Sistine Chapel.   
It made her stomach feel funny  
like jumping out of a car on a breathless highway.