stumbling upon ghosts like easter eggs,
hidden around the upper east side.
i have seen the remains of every perfect day
stacked like old newspapers at the curb,
fighting the urge
to take them, wrap myself in them, live another beautiful August
i have resigned myself to
sweeping pieces of broken glass from the floor of my kitchen
"things have changed but i wish you could have seen that vase,
it was really something"
before pushing the door open and inviting the guests inside,
"welcome to my home, steer clear
of the corners for awhile,
i can't promise
they won't cut".