by John Reed

You and I are everywhere but here.
Down on Gansevoort at the swanky bar,
the cherrystone clams are ready for us,
on ice on a platter, on the half shell–
and the sprinklers time-on at the great lawn–
and an orange skirt is somewhere walking–
and drivers are adjusting their mirrors.
We’re 24/7, below Canal,
in the alterverse where the lights stay on,
the shutters stay up, the phone keeps ringing,
and “they” are bones like snowdrifts in corners.
We’re orphaned only in this universe,
but there, we’re in my chest and in your hair.