Dusk
The chime of an ice cream truck
materializes. A moth ticks obliquely
against a darkening screen.
(This could be any world.
This could be any nerve.
This
is the crucially useless circus
in which I rehearse the bruise
I miss you.
There will always be
a hand beyond
weather —
fire’s immediacy
in sharpest frost.
• • •
The Misfits
For breaking’s
sake, be far
away.
— you know
corrosion
grates
shapes.)
As in
Christmas cards to which
we’ll never reply, to which
scissors fit in
half
light.
• • •
Allergy
Just because I feel disease
doesn’t mean
it’s mine.
( Altitude
flinches.
An apple
splits.)
By way of highest pollen,
this flower-pain
is yours.