I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you,
or for anyone. It would just be about the doors,
the old glass doorknobs in my apartment,
and Mission Carmel—the rickety stairs
dense with pigeons all the way up the sealed bell tower;
the brown fountains, dry but overrun with geraniums;
and the cemetery with its smell of wild onions …

—From “Wild Onions”

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