The sky hangs black in the pot’s dark pool. I turn to offer you a cup, but you say you’ve had enough of stars.
Dawn: ice and sawed limbs strewn across the floor of morning, frozen ripples where angels disappear into the brine.
Why all this laughter amid so much debris? Your letters never explained, and helpless above the sink, I can only continue scrubbing these lines until they shine like some angel’s wave-washed face, but chipped and crazed.
Down where the sky pours sympathetically into its cup someone is singing about the hangman’s beautiful daughter, causing the chokecherry to sag, then break into pieces that sparkle like stars, like sea foam, like dishwater, that scatter like notes across this ancient kitchen floor.