from DIRGE [postcards]

The pillars were removed succinctly—

stone generals lying down.   

Olive trees shivered.

The audience wept inexplicably.

Maybe I lit the fire.

Maybe I dreamed I was awake.

We were renaming stairs,

trading pages no one should read.

A new game.

No one said it’s your turn

to tightrope across.

That time is a mess, spiraling.

A picture wouldn’t comply.

Layers lost sunset.

Eighth notes took darkness.

It was impossible to wake up

without a sky in the window

without a shoulder.

No one knew exactly.

No one said you’ll feel better

when you aren’t lost in marigolds.

When the story notices itself.

Tomorrow I’ll set fennel out for swallowtails,

study polka-dot symmetrical wings.

Never speaking of the paragraphs we buried.  

Stone alphabets falling without breaking.

There was no container for memory.

The planets didn’t line up.  

We were tallying loose ends

to send a clearer postcard.

Not much has happened all at once.

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