Should Lose Things
Should lose things like pens–
can’t remember and mustn’t care.
To fathom the land from the air is salt spilled on the
tablecloth. Hid by the pattern.
Can’t but fall into oscillations. Mountain-wrinkled knuckles.
The thread of a hair on a shower wall, the uncoughed
breath of air behind the throat.
A love for pages and rectangles, a paper desire for love
cries as it crinkles and folds.
There are so many things to end–fire and water both.
Hoping for red leaves fallen on sidewalks to
hold some of the cringe and the pity.
A descent into purple washes, a rest in watercolors.
Hoping someone could finger-pick a tune to this.