In Long Island, the phone rings and rings.
At night,
the bullfrogs vibrate in the swamp.
In the day, the sun skims
over the hypoglycemic pool.

This is where you first stabbed me
this is where you left that whorl of dirt
[and horizon . . .
This is where our fathers knelt and smelt the fear
in the bread of our body.

We rode bicycles through the night.
The trees closed over us like wombs,

and the shiver of the leaves made us
believe something was—

You said, “Gotta be home by midnight,”
and my bike light hit your ponytail
waving back and forth
as you stood and pedaled off.

I no longer beseech you.
As the barges tug down the East River,
we press our noses to the car window
and watch the trash carry away the gulls.