she cuts you off
in a way
prodding Gotye
to play you a song
in an odorless bar.

hemline draped
over bathtub’s edge
and you stir the spatula
left, then right
through sweet oatmeal.

“I want to stay alone, in my disease.”

another two weeks’ notice
for which you weren’t ready
while the dial on the stove
chases its tail
in misdirected strain.

envelope flaps,
resting across
five weeks of March,
pages most colored
from appointments life declined.

“It’s just too dark to play.”

game among bushes
and blades guiding ants
into jars jammed tight
with styrofoam wrap
cracking in icy sarcasm.

you’ve shaped your wheels
to match her feet,
angry and questioning
moans of red rain
which broke a frameless window.


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