probably. We�re searching for an aunt you�ve never met. I crane toward bulldozers
and dump trucks parked along the shore. I can wait. Styrofoam buoys dance over the Sound.
Behind a warehouse two strangers prop their sneakers on the wheel of your '87 BMW.
There's a Murphy bed in the foyer on 58th Street, purple curtains now on 94th.
And all those people from long ago. How new haircuts frame thinner faces.
I can understand why people leave. The phone is precarious on the dash while you gun it
down Old Hickory past their unlit houses. You haven�t told them a sincere word in decades.
We could stomach a few bruises these days. Newspapers pave the berry patch on Spring Street, damp
and sculpted like pap�er mach�. Some shirtless man is inside with the hamsters.
Soot pours from his chimney. I�m hunting for raspberries in the briars behind.
What is your daughter�s middle name? What others did you consider? Do you change
your own brake pads? Do you water your snapdragons often? The contents of your mailbox
will suffice. I am only window-shopping. Monsters, deserts, skyscrapers: These
children who believe in things. We argue with the neighbors and bang on the pipes
when the TV�s too loud. Here there is no lying, or at least no believing the lies we tell.
There are brand new bridges and brand new demolitions. Something reassures in small things.