Even if this wine glass can’t hold wine,
it looks in one piece. Such satisfaction
when we think we can fix something.
No need to make a long list of fuck-ups
and regrets, it’ll look like everyone else’s.
It’s not like there’s a shortage of explanations.
By the fourth day, the roses in the vase
are experts at falling apart but they were
experts before while they were connected
to the dirt. So were the beetles. Maybe
only details matter: what the flames felt
before you knew they were flames, bits
of the porous world, the words that made up
your intimate code. How have we gotten so snarled?
Sometimes thunder promises rain but it’s wrong
and birds fly the wrong direction so why
should you worry about turning to frost
in summer? Even the wind contradicts itself.
Nothing can be fixed.