It’s not getting easier
to understand:
calderas, string
lights, streaming
packages, how to
bury a bird, who has
keys, who hasn’t
swam too far down
their own pain sluice
sifting to find a nice
shaded spot to sit and
be happy for a second
or six million, whatever
isn’t, years that don’t
arrive, zits, mistakes, saving
long voicemails from people
I don’t know even though I know
I won’t replay them, forgetting
your birthday, never talking
weather or lateness or why
I cry in the shower and think
it all looks the same, that
on the way to your place
the ash leaves are pretty
much asserting Circle
back. Change
stations. First
the bridge forms
ice, then the shoulder
lane freezes over.
The hosta beds. The frogs
in their first winter
learning a new fear.
I’m building an eclipse.
I’m keeping it for myself.