on tiles where the hourglass shattered,
schoolgirl knees like closed eyes under
wide flounced skirt, the gypsy presages:
blood oranges under a setting sun,
the shadow of someones arm, lapis
lazuli, decapitated lilies, alopecia
and the grizzly bear rug. Instantly,
you regret the scent of coffee from
the percolator. She appears at random
in dreams: the ballpoint that spouted
the cut wrists of a neighbors daughter,
lipstick on mirrors, fractured moon through
blinds. She insists mountains beyond
the window are lopped breasts; and did you
really think theyd keep your nipples in a jar?
The note on the fridge says: Well be back
for dinner. It is yellow with age, like
her hands on the small of your back.
When was the last time you used plain
flour? The gloves are aquamarine latex.
You pick up pieces on the floor, gritty
nanoseconds that used to tell time.
Some nights you finish early, head
still pressed against the pillow, and fall
into subzero sleep. Some nights she lets
you glimpse the salt crust on her cheeks.
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