2pm I go to eat my apple in the sun                     the buildings here
that look alike                                in layer cakes        many styles of

I push hair out of my eyes       hand sweeps across the face & makes
a sheet     like sleeping           standing on Waverly        sometimes I

think of Ana Mendieta’s corpse          where on this sidewalk exactly
& when             upstairs, Wikipedia gives an address one block over

9/8/85                             feels perverse, maybe       to have searched
ought to work now          I make a list          make little checkmarks

the real pleasure I derive from this          sign of some provincialism
if I think of this morning   flash of walking      up from the subway

I see it like a shot              New York movie             with loneliness
or criminals               then shade of lipstick on the Han’s Deli lady

days have starting points                               but I don’t remember
feet on hardwood       water from the faucet         raising the blinds