The Wheel of the World

Black Sunflowers

I slurp your tombstone,

page 81, the buttery paper

slides like the homerun

of Derek Jeter, on September 25^th

1999, coaxed by the Mariners.

I find it (545-2690)

Scotch taped to your forehead;

Peel your filaments,

hang them on the wall,

next to the Eiffel Tower

road map that we

punctuate three years

later with garden shears,

while Enrique Iglesias

sings. But he can’t.

And you can’t. Our breath

is the stack of dusty

Atlantic Monthlies on Grandma

Ruth’s grave, we can’t

bring her back to life either.

I had licked your number

to important

places years ago: bumper

stickered to my hand, under

the easy button, scribbled

on the vegetable drawer, inscribed

in the Chicago Times

obituaries. But chanting

numerals ate my memories;

they are road kill

on Route 67. Now these mangled

remnants reclaim

their spot on my mantle,

where I sit by the fire

and count seven

numbers. They blur

with taunting scintillas.

They are afire, as the world

spirals two towers.

They regurgitate black sunflowers

on my lap and the smell of

meadows infects the

phonebook, making you

seem beautiful.

But you’re not. And we’re not.

To me you are a

            number.