Again, the book empty—betrayed.
The dream leaves for other lands decorated with streetlights and one-way traffic signs.
The hip said, I’m sorry for my elegy.
The dog knows the horizon is a straight line, where the coyote live.
To talk of The Lost City didn’t bring anyone back.
The window of empathy may have expired—the broken Robin’s egg edging the driveway.
The book said, pack your rusted suitcase.
Though these revolving-door scenes may be an ensemble piece—
you’ll be alone.
The sun feels holy, she said.
Take it with you–September garden light to soften chaos.
We could swim to Japan.
We could move the ether with blindness.
The subject of the study said, what will save me?
The surgeon’s cut is angry—pushing new skin under shiny staples.
The brain says, you should type a way out of The Sleeping City, this town that doesn’t even know you.
The father tells the daughter, your doll won’t grow back mermaid wings.
We’ll bury her shoulders.
We’ll buy you a dog or cat.
Everyone knows the checkbook balances out in the wash.
Everyone knows autumn falls down with a crash.