HOW IT HAPPENS AGAIN

Crack open that half-century-old paperback
For its last run-through. The pages haven’t seen
The sun in ages yet have tanned. The glue is a
Yellowed crust. The body breaks into uneven
Chunks. Fragments fly off like freshly cut toenails.
The book was used even when it was new to you.
The words, although you absorbed them as avidly
Then as you read them now, create no echoes.

A stocky middle-aged man stands waiting for
A 1st Avenue bus. In vibrant white on his fresh,
Wordless black T-shirt is a face, next to it the head
Of a microphone. The icon seems to sport a
Pixie haircut. Is it Edith Piaf? No, it’s Ian Curtis.
He sang with the English postpunk band Joy
Division before killing himself. Imagine Ian
Curtis sitting silently on a slow-moving bus.

Federico C., a man I believe is dead, keeps
Emailing me. When I see his name, for a moment
Federico may be alive. Surely he’s gone, though.
In old age he moved from New York, his adopted
Home, to his native Buenos Aires to be cared for
By relatives, and soon his newsy messages stopped.
After a long silence, the etemptations began. Their
Subject lines promise photos, parties, and reunions.

As I attempted to read on a chaise lounge near
The lake, flies kept landing in unpredictable
Places on my sweaty, uncovered skin. Maybe
Female horseflies, with their sawlike appendages,
Were seeking blood. One of these tormentors broke
Through my side, producing a wound. Days later,
That spot became bright red, swollen, and hot.
A bacterial infection required two antibiotics.