Brooklyn Botanic Garden,

white October air,

fifty-two acres

appeal to the senses,

stage whimsical clues

to deceive the sixth,

to sway me from

the oblivion

of a phone that doesn't ring,

a suit that doesn't fit,

glitter on your sweater

in Nolita,

that feeling all day —

your mom's washing machine,

a TV show I'd avoid

watching, your disinterest

in Genet, Hugo,

the history of Paris

(s is silent)

of what I miss —

a buffet

of decadence and grandeur,

lucky breaks and stomachaches

as I lay bleeding

in Oz's room,

your gracelessness

lost

in oxymora