I erase the penciled name on the front page
of the book.
I can still see the ghost image of the letters,
can trace the shape pressed into the paper.
Tell me again why you left me.
The last time I read this poem
publicly, I was drunk,
standing on a table,
and I went home
with the prettiest woman at the party.
Could it have been twenty years ago the hearse
drove by filled with oranges?
Wind in trees as though they were catching fire.
Give me, you said, tonight, another night.
I gave you ice water. Rather, the ice from the water.