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up and smiles, and I accelerate

      down the last drop of the bridge,

      and our stomachs jump into our throats, and we coast

      back into the country where we were born.

       Sunday Morning

      The weather turned bad and I got happy.

      That’s wrong—I mean the morning sky

      was ash blue, birds on the ground. I mean

      not happy but good, not good

      but fastened, steady, like every train in the city

      was running late, but no one minded.

      On 12th Street, tarpaulin swelled

      and bowed in wind. Rain drove straight

      through a woman’s dress. And again

      on Hollis, that slowness: damp black

      trees, the line of streetlights

      paced like breath. I pulled over. Leaves

      dripped like rinsed hands.

      A girl held her mother

      by the shoulders on a porch.

       Far Rockaway

      Not this one

      says the woman on the platform

      this one

      is going to Lefferts

      you want the next one

      the one to Far Rockaway

      and I nod

      though I’ve never been there

      though it’s cold

      as I picture it

      white dunes

      Far Rockaway

      waves

      with grey hair

      I remember that movie

      where the actor known for comedy

      wears a black jacket

      is melancholy

      in winter skips work

      and rides the train past blackbirds

      all day

      far boroughs

      and his own reflection

      what awaits him

      is a beach in winter

      gulls and stone

      in one scene

      he just stands there

      spinning

      in another

      a stranger with blue hair

      peeks her head

      above the train seat

      they hate each other

      sporadically

      share a cigarette

      and fall in love

      I was sixteen and my heart hurt

      to watch it

      it made me want to be older

      and lonesome

      handsome

      with brown hair

      and an empty pier

      a winter

      where I could be alone

      that year I read A Coney Island

      of the Mind met Genevieve

      mimicked my body

      with pillows stuffed beneath my sheets

      sneaking out to the lake

      beneath a pink sky

      she kissed me

      silver clasp and vodka

      yellow bra

      falling off her shoulders

      that actor

      the last I heard

      stopped being funny

      grew a beard

      voted

      fell in love

      with a woman

      thin as a wing

      who OD’d

      a quiet suicide

      of white pills

      for two winters

      I read Genevieve

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