A leaf placed upon the vase
lost from leaves. I turn
the corner to a thudding car lost
in the blank street of soft pleats.
Lost in shedded winter down.
The noiseless account to be recorded on retail paper.
A stolid tale to be recalled as clear,
chrome and the mouse woven
in their petulant paths.
Invest in better mousetraps.
Is this clear?
We can’t afford home anymore or
all of the things I walk past
without consequence. You locked
the door behind you, the young
pigeon falls from suspended tracks landing
on the pavement. They are too analogous
to show semblance and what was so profound
about his speech? I’m not sure what I got from it.
Written with diacritics,
the rain and the streaking
on the hood of your car, is not
that of the rain but of the sun,
tarnishing its varnish, flaking
like tree bark green as lichen.
The street floods.
Image Credit: Joshua Mathews.
