Elegy with Clothes

All of your giant beige bras
floated up into the atmosphere.
Blue eggs fell down the chimney;
the porch,
losing its screened-in mind,
caved in.
I mistake one living cell for another.
Hand on the mallet
of my life—
you come
detonating midair
with your own grief—
it’s not even mine.

I watch mice eat through everything,
their droppings
like beads of hashish.
The world begins as
a wolf tied to a flower.

Can you see how it happens
like that?
Something too violent
is attached to something
too living?