Ghost courses.
Sixth floor waiting room, view
from above:
 
rabid traffic surges round the cloverleaf—seemed
a mild intersection enough
when I drove it.
 
To forget the losses, to undo.
You know someone has it worse than you,
someone you know.
 
I really do not feel obliged to make
this work.
 
 
Histories
accrue, corners weigh down, wrists raw, a way up is
rich that’s all.
 
Mums bloom among frost-burned leaves.
City detritus—in other words, never cease, just keep
following these fitful lights.