One. A pregnant pause. A flash in the pan.
One sip of whiskey, then the burn in your throat.
A redacted redaction.

Two options, one fate,
someone dozes in the middle of the day.
Where’s the source utterance in an echo chamber.
Nightfall lights lights,
grapes come in clusters.

Three is surety and truce,
the perceived threat before an alliance.
Three open windows, three specks of dust.

I call four times and no one answers.
Four times or two, whatever.

If you’re tossing and turning all night
going, Where am I? over and over and over
and over and over, it’s time to burn your bridges
and move on.