by Christopher Janke

Millet spills and looks like broken glass
on the kitchen floor.
The moths burrow down.
Mice sleep in the poison ivy,
and I bring you a capital H,
for hide me in the closet,
for oh, how the air feels like cement again,
for all the moments I almost told you
how I really feel, but was distracted
by the thought of a swimmer in a riptide.
Everything is gone, or going,
like houses sold at auction with their attics full.
The weeds are turning gold.
Porcupines are making love.
I’ve come to give you this:
my basket of brown grass and pebbles.

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