Remaining Evidence

In the morning, when I hear water run, I no longer look for you
in the kitchen. I place the toast on the table
in front of an empty chair. Later, I remove

the empty plate. I hear the door close and tell myself
it’s the neighbor’s door. Crumbs pattern the plate

like footsteps in snow. Hoping to see birds, I toss the crumbs
out the window. When the crumbs are gone,

there will be no way to know whether it was birds that ate them.

Thumbnails of America

Do you wish for a heart
less like a turnstile or a mother tongue
other than a dollar?

I Looked For You

“I landed on this island late in the day. From the ferry, I watched the harbor approaching, and the small white town perched around the Venetian-style castle, and I thought, maybe he’s here.”