For Lucy

(If you give an inch I will pull you down)

That morning in December when I read about Lucy
tears burned my face, leaving trails.

I tried to explain that what was happening was from
the crushing rush of memory: not so different
from trying to cross Houston Street after the light has changed.
You didn’t see my point; your arms on me
felt like hot snakes so I pushed them away
(trying to save myself)

The show is for the actor.
The glittering box for the stones inside.

I cried again yesterday: I remembered that hot evening,
the Jazz Standard, we sat in the window.
Eating foie gras and drinking gin and tonic. People
were coming and going downstairs
to hear Roswell Rudd.
We sat, smoked.
We spent until we had no more dollars between us.

It was our last time together. Now I know
that days weeks months years erase nothing.