WEST OF SCHENECTADY

The sun sets like a whispered regret behind the hills or is that a mountain.

Moths come to the screen door as if that was what they were made for.

Moth for screen door. & vice versa.

I don’t have time for their secrets tonight.

I am making my loneliness small. So small it fits on a postcard

a baby rabbit could eat.

The sun sets like an expensive fragrance. Like the memory of a neck.

The coyotes come but don’t they know I’ve named that rabbit, stay away.

Stay far.

The sun sets like a new regret like a flute I am learning to play

& I’m bad at it. Progress is slow.

It’s like saying tapioca pudding into the phone.

& the phone doesn’t work, I just want its weight pressed against my ear

until my ear is sticky.

I’m in the mood for facts.

Big globs of them. Big adult rabbits of science.

There’s a town in Upstate New York called Esperance where the gravity

works fine.

Esperance, NY as if “hope” in French is a higher quality hope.

Made of jewels & brie.

The sun sets like a science special I hated once.