Even this fire, you say. Even your shoes
are falling apart. See the soles giving a bit

to the heat. Through smoke, your face seems
unlikely, your hair in impossible knots. Inside,

the house we swept just this cold morning
collects crumbs, dropped garlic skins, scraps

not needed in our precise recipes. The neighbor’s
old Beetle gathers more rust with each coming rain

and my father, more pills with each coming day.
My glass of beer is an organized spill, the shower

an intentional stream. I make my bed
each morning knowing sleep will shake it free.

A mosquito sips my thigh and blood gathers in the pear-
shaped hollow of my body where, one day, life

might puzzle together. Life requires, heat takes,
teeth chew then, someday, decay. Even love,

you say. Even the strictest binds want
to come apart. Silence lasts until a dog barks.