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Unstitching grief

I let down the hem of the wide-legged jeans, ripping

the narrow seam thread by thread. Unfolded,

the white crease revealed their age. Heat and steam

made it more pronounced. I ironed it permanent

instead of out, blue marker the last indelible mistake.

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In memoriam

I unstitch action from actor, dismantle memories’ timeline,

embellish with treasured beads idly trifling my fingers,

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Santa Justa Sonata

Waiting to board for Cádiz, in the slate gray Sevilla Santa Justa lobby,

I am surprised to recognize where I am. I have been here before.

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Threshold

Some summer mornings I resist the invitation to greet the day

on the page, murmur excuses within the crowded clamor – too cold,

too gray, too late – then the seagull flies overhead, mouth dangling

dark matter extracted from a neighbor’s gutter, to the nest I cannot see

but must be close.

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At least two lives

A building has at least two lives – the one imagined by its maker

and the life it lives afterward – and they are never the same.   

– Rem Koolhaas

Some never knew of the secret stair, smooth, cool

caracol of white cantera, winding out of sight

complicit in the house built in another era

for people who carried other burdens in and out

the front door, supplies and groceries

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