Each minor spectacle erases me
from where I am going when I am going there
mainly because aiming is a long worried unpacking
I get home. I stop
in front of the brown stoop and think I have to
go up there to the woman and her hound.
That church again
on 30th avenue calls me back: come smoke
on the steps like you are a villain in a movie.
Read the newspaper hold your umbrella
like you are a villain in a movie.
The internet nymphaeum
accumulates the messages
In transit I shake my head I carry
my bag up the brown
steps real heavy like
I have nothing else
to think about just
gravity and how it makes time
before I get up there
to the computer paper
and the woman’s Persian cat
hiding in paisleys
and the stacks of betrayed books
Y la pobre perra,
her teats touching the rug
when she sleeps on her side
I unlatch the door
and she opens her eyes
full of water and light.