Black

Most of smoke is ash;
photographs are shadow only—

clouds, memories of the starless
slate into which they fold.

I’ve known you forever.
I’m waiting by the ocean

and you’re the man in the moon.
Night won’t acknowledge us

whistling cold, you telling me
the depth of the ocean

me telling you
about the cotton in my bones.

Cincinnati

The tag made it vintage.

The coffee-colored water
stained everything.

A riot neglected.

I remember your face was neither

as skim of Bible pages
coated the Ohio.

Inside Every Bird

is a penny
with a silhouette
of your father as an infant.

The light in photographs

the silence particular to elevators—

everything
is only a part of itself.