I am generally running away from Providence, Rhode Island.
My parents invested in the bleating of hammered goats
and that sad magenta runner laying outside my sisters window
is the same magenta of this woman's scarf.
I slid under the feet of the locals
through the broken glass and unequal square sides
but lost her and turned around and around,
until I could barely find myself and then I breathed out
some names and one was yours and I was sure you could hear it.
Providence wrote me a letter saying Where have you been?
Why are there orchids blooming in winter? but I don't go in for riddles.
I tried to write a letter with a hammer but just broke up some windows
and the glass reflected you twenty times (I was happy for it). I was happy
like the things we talk about never doing. I am happy
even back in the Providence shadows, pushing pennies along with my toes,
wondering how you put your hair up with so little to hold on to.
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