she is a trainwreck
made from the tall timbers 
of a broken picnic table

i left her
an open letter
on the subjugation of field mice
and fishing nets

she only read the last sentence 
about burning tapeworms in effigy
she choked on the semicolon

i called the last pint of clear sight
the nectar of electric leather
tacked to the cellar door

she called me twice
in the same nap
to tell me musty tales
had left town     twice

i mowed copies of the letter
mailed the lawn to the tigers
i sat in the bathtub
and whittled statues of the sofa

she lit a gas lamp in the alley
kept it in the locked closet
to cool off the treetrunks

i shave waistbands
head west
and look for a dark closet


					



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