After fifty feet, you are down to the smaller bones.
Rosemary and fir needles in an old clay pot on the deck.
Lotsa luck giving things away. Metallic tasting wounds.
Fluted window glass. Car tail lights going back and forth.
Dinner on the outer wall—someone’s tunic is on fire.
At the national art museum. Everything isn’t in there.
Thin people walking into you. Give them your hat.
The cracked face on a thousand year old bowl.
A Mardi Gras mask. Thumbs in a cast.
Cotton bolls on stalks in a brown vase.
Every time the wrong thing happens well.
They probably saw something and didn’t say anything.
The way you walk when go means not now.
This madness is like fleas.
A donkey slide. Know your betters.