I snap the twig to try to trap the springing and I relearn the same lesson. You cannot make a keepsake of this season. Your heart's not the source of that sort of sap, lacks what it takes to fuel, rejects the graft, though for a moment it's your guilty fist that's flowering. You're no good host to this extremity that points now, broken, back at the dirt as if to ask are we there yet. You flatter this small turn tip of a larger book of matches that can't refuse its end, re-fuse itself, un-flare. Sure. Now forget again. Here's a new green vein, another clutch to take, give, a handful of seconds.
As if the lucky might ride it to shore
while the others go under.
Some dogs make for higher ground,
spurred by a shake or a sound
in a frequency to which we never tuned.
Dogs’ ears rise now
to the scream of the still-black screen,
the pitch before the picture.
Breaking here means broken elsewhere.
All our instruments, and still we’re late.
It’s six o’clock. In the windows,
families flicker on,
faces splashed blue in the wake.