Oh, that I might be tidy, sky blanched,
fields ribboned, trees skinned of bark.
But all is a-jumble, tangled and on fire.
Your fox-grin is torn away by a gust.
I am left to imagine your chattering jaw.
If I were neat you would be buried
behind the flat stones, courted
by cockroach and pin-light.
But you are a shattered goblet, here
and there, sharp and eager for flesh.
My shelves are rife with such stories,
spines rotten and pages loose.
I will never pick them up again.
I leave them for the flood, for the blaze,
for the blind-eyed moon. Let the tragedy
play out once more to the song of glass
and wind. Remind me what to regret.
Then perhaps I will disinherit
this chaos, my birthright of disarray.
I will let you go like a handful of dust.