Conversations run like broken eggs. From the highway smoke ushers in a formless man, his closed lips telling where he's been. His blood becomes coffee in heavy cups. Tintinnabula lingers in the ear and in the bent prongs of once-stolen forks. In forgotten sunglasses neon repeats itself in reverse.
Fingers pass over initials etched forever in some dented chrome.
Wires are down, suturing the lacquered stones. Weighted with absence, clotheslines sag, Stiffen. The sheets that canopied seedlings Have shriveled into bruised pears. All night I heard the splinter of unknown things. The woods had whitened, shredding into disarray.