Evening, the bees fled, the honeysuckle
in its golden dotage, all the sickrooms ajar.
Law of the Innocents: What doesn’t end, sloshes over…
even here, where destiny girds the cucumber.
So you wrote a few poems. The horned
thumbnail hooked into an ear doesn’t care.
The gray underwear wadded over a belt says So what.
The night air is minimalist,
a needlepoint with raw moon as signature.
In this desert the question’s not
Can you see?
but
How far off?
Valley settlements put on their lights
like armor; there’s finch chit and my sandal’s
inconsequential crunch.
Everyone waiting here was once in love.
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