WORMHOLES
they broke in to find a lamp pooled around her
upturned palm on which
a moth lay
serene..
a tabloid the day after cleverly moralized how both had flown
too close to the light…
but her deep dives into tranquil
pools of light were utterly unlike the moths instinctive
suicide.
As the evening darkens
herons
light up like candles
pooled
in the palm
the pebble
still fluent
summer storm
lanterns dancing
in drunken rooms
Summer sky.
The old carp floats belly
up on clouds.
The clouds recede past the hour of your coming.
Under our tree,
In the shift and shuffle
of leaves,
Two ropes and a slat of wood hang,
still.
Something somewhere is holding its breath.
Were it not for the timorous squeak of the gate,
so bone white in the falling light, who would have known
of your departure and mine own interment.