the christmas tree divorced in the window, the ce n’est pas
real tree — she is wearing a red sweater, the thread caught
at the edge of her neck, the cotton peter-
pan collar. when she coughs the spit rides up
her throat in a divorced ball and he,
watching, imagines taking
it out, colliding it, marrying and fucking
it. she leans into the window and counts her
reflections, plural. she is always better
in the underwater black, the prettier
reflection. he says, what are you
working on now?
she says, I don’t think I can be
a real writer, I have no more
ideas. he said — just write about your life
and if you do it well,
you will be remembered.
poem: ‘muse’
the last pavilion 