You get into puddles with the sky
and when this fails
pit your girl against an ocean.
Choices blur and make off with rooms
in the whiteness. Winged enough to manage
your red kimono’s 37 cranes in various
trajectories while you make the coffee.
You as God with rattlesnakes
and His Admiral Death holding down the muscle,
headless and breath swollen.
You scattered in her facelessness
behind the screen door, not frowning, not joyous,
just working her hands in a dish towel,
folding them away.
You as ether, over-exposed bursting place,
dulling with these selves, spun by light and
dropped into shadow places,
forgotten as you put the photos down.