My reading
glasses ended up in the grass.
It’s
easy—I’m lost without them. Yet I
can still
pick out black flies as they float
above the
summer spread of poison oak.
Love gets
scraped away so early, however mute it is—
the very
fabric—a spider web, still wet,
strung thin
between weeds.
The
trailered horses exit the parking lot below the fire break,
their tails
shedding, still wild.
Moments
breed, take what’s left of time.
In my hand a
trail of horsehair.
Fucked,
as a child.
