Bring me sackcloth and oleander.

Break out the shotguns.

We’re going to town.

Changes in the weather

tracked on smoke-streaked yellowed windows

via crosshatches thumbnail-

scratched into their frames.

Silences breed vacuums small enough

to hide in the hem of a skirt:

I collect the spent matches as proof.

(so very precious to no one else but me)

Like the granules of salt I tossed over my left shoulder

and several dozen miles worth

of broken guitar strings.

There are ashes in the lake.

There are termites in the marrow.

I have aluminum stuck in my teeth.

(bring me a glass of water and I’ll tell you everything)