Poetry from NER 36.3
Lucky or not, we were riding in cars through the seasons.
I read you Baudelaire. I have more memories than a thousand years.
And the skin began to look like a puzzle
despite lighting or pleasures.
Columbus Circle at midnight.
Turn around and remind me how late in these photos
you look like an Andrew or prince.
There is fog by the bed and house weather I live in.
Then by dawn I’m a fold in the fabric’s small show.
Believe me, he said, every hand finds the right door without keys.
Alex Dimitrov is the author of Begging for It (Four Way Books, 2013). A second collection of poems is forthcoming from Copper Canyon Press. He lives in New York.