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Branch LibraryI wish I could find that skinny, long-beaked boywho perched in the branches of the old branch library.He spent the Sabbath flying between the wobbly stacksand the flimsy wooden tables on the second floor,pecking at nuts, nesting in broken spines, scratchingnotes under his own corner patch of sky.I'd give anything to find that birdy boy againbursting out into the dusky blue afternoonwith his satchel of scrawls and scribbles,radiating heat, singing with joy.A Few Encounters With My Face 1 Who is that moonlit stranger staring at me through the fog of a bathroom mirror 2 Wrinkles form a parenthesis around the eyes dry wells of sadness at three a.m. 3 The forehead furrows in a scowl a question mark puzzled since childhood 4 Faint scrawl of chickenpox and measles broken asthma nights breathing steam 5 Hair thinning like his grandfather’s all those bald ancestral thoughts 6The nose a ram’s horn a scroll as long and bumpy as the centuries 7 Greed of a Latvian horse thief surprised by the lights 8 Primitive double chin divided in two a mother and father divorcing 9 Deep red pouches and black bags a life given to sleeplessness 10 Earnest grooves ironic blotches secret scars memories medallions of middle age 11 It would take a Cubist to paint this dark face splitting in three directions 12 Identify these features with rapture and despair one part hilarity two parts griefCharades We waited on two sides of the subway tracks: you were riding uptown and I was heading downtown to a different apartment, after all these years. We were almost paralyzed, as anxious travelers surged around us in waves, and then you started to pantomime. First, you touched your right eye. Then you palmed your left knee. Finally, you pointed at me. I made of a sign of understanding back to you but the train suddenly roared into the station and you disappeared.
