wanting more and more the common things—
garlic, playing cards, houses, the best of friends—
leaving us only the broken and exotic, so we
mix n’ match like kids splashing into a memory
game with little consequence and not a single fit.
In the future shall our hands drift, pieces of different puzzles
borne by a creek, touching every once in a while. Currently
who are we to bare our necks to a wind that will not have us?
Only the more intelligent arrived to swallow the sharp morsels,
and only so to word us more profusely, never letting up, never gracious,
never a finger tracing a way to what had been taken from us.
It was morning when it rained.
You were sleeping when I left.