There were two worlds then, the one we lived in and the one she invented, where my aunt remarried and nobody ever went to America
the smoke of belt burn / and nectarines and me / — I will learn to love him
there is little room for sourness, / little room for anything other than a vibrating joy
The world was a changed thing / a variant of its former self, and you were / A new ripple in the miles-deep pool of time, / that one breath strumming the tender / Chords of the system.
Dear sudden inspiration, creeping uncertainty, tiny splinter of glass, / sometimes you cannot be enough.
In a time lapse, nothing happens smoothly. / Red horns quake as they splinter / from limbs on the bottlebrush.