- What is this passing flick a stiffened glue
- drop in midair, a single tawny mushroom like
- an ear to call in to.
- An invisible urn of curled threads.
- A clay pitcher patched as if scarred dirt flesh
- holds black pools of night air
- provisionally. A mutable intersection
- from which you could pour out a shape.
- It’s a fishing line of silver dots.
- The miniscule fish in air flow among
- these swimming motes of thought.
- I saw a ragged doll dress here hung on the wall.
- An empty white office envelope in the dark.
- I wrote a letter to you and lost it in my hand.
- A mass of twiglets
- humped where breasts might be
- bear a mossy, wood pharaonic crown
- by the parking lot and old factory windows
- that fluorescently shine on boxes of yellowed Xerox paper.
- Filaments reflected hang in the air.
- Everyone is coming back.
- Passover must be near.
- Chartreuse buds coiled near my hand seem too tight to unfold.
- Only twinkie wrappers shine peripherally under a tire.
- A yearning in April that is forgotten the other months.
- A sweater I found at Goodwill of wool
- and eucalyptus, crumbles yet seems to regrow, like soil.
- Black plastic mesh over white metal stairs forms an
- undulant doorway.
- Underneath, I finally see
- is the word dim gold letters spell.
Kimberly Lyons is the author of Calcinatio (Faux Press, 2014) and Approximately Near (2016, Metembesendot.org). She publishes Lunar Chandelier Press and lives in Chicago.