Close the Door Behind You
You washed your face with sink water
and the water of the Sound
that rolled cans into the harbor
which is to say the same water
with different names.
You have been to the all-day,
all-night rest stop, have read the names
of people who don’t exist nailed
along the edges of the bathroom mirrors.
You wandered Long Beach with your father
in blue shirts, black bags in your hands.
You watched the bottle spiked
onto the floor shatter in varying radii
and the cigarette grow
out of your mother’s hand like a sixth finger.
At Minnewaska, the water’s reflection of your face
was clearer than your face.
You grew old in your bedroom’s one window
and in so many
leave a message, I am not heres.
You memorized the trails behind Stillwell Park,
the flags of countries,
how night refines
behind the bridges of New Jersey.
You’ve seen nothing, or almost nothing,
except the wind folding up a flock of gulls
like napkins,
and placing them on all the seats
to which you will never return.