I swept the sun from the garage floor because everything hurt in reverse, and I couldn’t climb up to catch the autumn leaves as if someone were listening.
No one shows up for the conversation about Monday mediocrity at the broken mailbox or rusted fire pit that the rain claimed from memory.
I couldn’t help burning the contract with myself to turn the layers inside out with the patience of daffodil bulbs and daylight.
The streetlight will mock the moon after darkness sets her onyx wings to enclose us without a soundtrack, without a sound.
I applied for the job of holding things during the relay race toward knowledge that doesn’t follow the chipmunk underground, shatter windows, or make chimneys crumble when we’re asleep in dreams of splendor.
It’s funny how the house pretends to know us, we pretend, before the next day might begin its shivering.
There should be someone to call in your contacts to explain the measurements of hours that meander, but not exponentially or terribly eloquently—blankly.
The owl holds winter in her feathers and will continue writing her sestina. Wing bones, like the bones in one’s hand, take forever to heal.
Dark so early, dinner might last all night without a book to write, without a fight with eternity.