In last season’s leaves
Watermelon bits of you
are beetle-covered
and evaporating with
wing sheathes whispering
deliver unto us the fuse-lighter
The church basement tip-line
is ringing off the hook
If you or anyone you love
becomes the victim
of a cold case bombing
You may be entitled to a disappearance.
or was it social suicide?
or solitude?
Every lost connection in my bed
resting their fingertips on my skin
in the half-light rosemary oil dusk
but a wire sticking from a box labeled “hats”
catches the corner of my eye
Dear People I Live With
did you mean to leave this gunpowder
in the Christmas decorations?
Yes, we did
and now that you mention it
can we just be friends?
After a decade of the Work
I am still googling “sadness”
and re-reading the Wikipedia article
about Homo Sapiens being the only animal that cries
or has expectations of clarity
