because you need to let go of something

filling jars with the crooked necks of supermarket

tulips, the moon in disciplined orbit tries to sleep.

teaching a cowlick to stay down is like colonizing

the rain so hives build to hold whatever’s capable

of sweetness. moaning owls hard knuckle the elms

and clanking copy machines turn dead trees into

more burden— animal sadness— thicker

as the years wash down. remember when

we clipped armfuls of oily yellow sunflowers,

a whimper of fog over the fields? i love you

but i don’t think it’s enough. the smell of gasoline

reminds me that everything is flammable but

our simmering blue jackets shiver on the curb outside

the pulsing club. if we're not careful even our friends

feel like customers. unsteady as a bubble and thirsty,

darkness in the heart is leakage, the spooky hand

of a trembling city feeling gorgeous and hateful.

the pit in the peach. the opposite of color.