in your yard: tulips in May;
summer, lilies; the perennial bed
you plotted yourself. An inventory
of your pets: one dog, two cats.
Each can fetch its own food.
A map of your route to work.
The clerks can remind you what you do.
A photograph: July’s bluest day.
You on the Brooklyn Bridge.
The dark-haired man is your best friend.
The blonde in the black dress,
her fist against your jaw? Those
are her clothes on your bedroom floor.
Once you shot a hole-in-one.
In the sun, your nose burns first.
Stay away from gin and olives,
German opera, wool socks.
A card for your wallet: Today
Is the Last Day of Your Past.
A mirror. Study this face.