Pick Up Sticks
My hands, when the curtain falls I believe in you. Every bit of
furniture pulsing with trust worsens to ash. I’d turn to see it,
and when I no longer blinked the leaves, wasps poured out the eaves.
A cup of sugar the white of weather, while a glass tips casually brown.
The business of the bald, the castings of the street. Trash day samples
glide in the blow. Ordinarily I rest my finds,
just today I can’t look.