Deeply out of practice, like a flat guitar

or neglected horn—flecked

with the top-shelf dust

of a back-corner closet

where we walk out on our dreams.

Our potential to be

something other. Other than

predictable, plannable,

endlessly programmable—equipped with no need

to blink

as the sun and moon tumble

like drying shoes.

I’ve hung up

my perm-pressed blues in favor

of ill-fitting suits and

left-handed salutes to all

I used to be.

A red-poppy wreath

for her obsession, blue for neurotics

and eccentricity.


for her bird bones

against fondant feathers.

And purple

for her poetry.