I wanted not to chicken out,
but doubt
left my gaps un-jumped,
and in lieu of courage,
I saw again and again
a surgeon's hand
weave a probe—
my whole self mended
and / or ended
by a single finger.
Oh, the purple garlic.
Oh, what remains
unfixed,
such as a heart.
What's the word for impossible?
Was saying to no one the other day.
Nights we watched
the sunset beyond the D
in Donuts
in the parking lot behind Kroger.
How, when the colors became exhausted
the collection was complete, because
it was a collection of colors,
and the sill appeared deepened especially
for our sketches:
opossum on brown paper,
lighthouse being ornery,
hobby farm gone
into plain dilapidation.
And we,
being pre-broken-hearted,
flipped script
with our loves and our horrors
together,
had we made ourselves opaque?
Had we wandered accidentally into pattern?
