thursday morning, july. it was storming.
four blocks down fifth avenue and two more back to 86th street and we stumbled back to brooklyn with pants plastered to thighs. after that we made plans to plant flowers on the graves of our heroes and priests, to never have empty mailboxes. i bought this umbrella— it was five dollars, automatic, black. every time it opens on its own i remember— a postcard from russia, some wet cigarettes, a song in my head, an empty mailbox.
tuesday afternoon, october. it is storming.
eight blocks to the station, sloshing down the sidewalks with tiny floods splashing at ankles. that umbrella sprung open half an hour ago. i bought this record— it is eleven songs, veiled portraits, a voice i imagine coming from your mouth. and now i understand— a few words, a home-made envelope, geography.