Well, there was the time
when, nonplussed, like
Kafka's K, or a Knut Hamsun character,

I didn't know how to respond.
Walking down the stairs
of a University building,

something I said or didn't say
concerning our friend's

death–from a hair dryer
fallen into the tub–
sounded wrong,

inappropriate,
to a blonde roommate's
ear. The three of us,

living and dead,
were graduate students.
I did not know the

roommates, although
we three shared
classes at times.

I thought neither "siren"
nor "harpy" of the
lady on the stairs

Something
more like "person,"
or "human," I guess–who

knew? If I could see
across the strings
of time and space,

& privacy–or
get into H.G. Well's
time machine

and go back to
the steps,
maybe I would say

something
equally inept,
something like–

the cords like vines
of wood in the wrists
of Grandfather, bloody

on the bathroom
floor, 1963,
Mom weeping–

Grandmother asking,
Jimmy can you
get a pulse?