for Terry

There are men who do nithing

but record the dreams of women.

Tonight in Connecticut a tornado

cut a swatch of chaos out of reverie.

The Pope is in Philadelphia.

We are not. Tonight you seemed

healthy on the phone—working,

whole, able, as it were, to lift

the phone to your face and speak

to me. It was not always so. October

never seemed so rich or nefarious;

weather like a lined glove we slip on,

an ever new edge to try, a toy.

Tonight you are barely in Ohio,

hanging onto sensuality

with your several goddamned claws, finally,

with an individual lack of resonance.

Remember, we used to exclaim over nothing

but crocus knuckling into the world,

the autumn moon demanding sight?

Anything in heat? The worst late shows

Detroit had to offer? On the news,

victims smile through the wind, the Pope

in a red hat offers children

to the opening sky.