The sex offender turns his head so far left
cameras capture only the cords of his neck,
tight as harp strings.

Say: Hanging in there while windows
grow clouds and clock hands hesitate.

I trade subway cars and study shoes.

Some other night, rather than Nevermore.

When I ask the children to write about a day
when only the impossible happens, one girl
looks at me as if I should know better, and I should.

Look beyond the shadow that hovers over yours.

Trees lean and hook their branches
through slots of the fire escape.

I’ll be right back, cupping your dog’s face.

Say: Things will get better now as if you mean it.

The girl writes: I was looking at the sky
over and over until there is no white space left on her paper.