after Dorianne Laux
This shard of Pangea’s shattered plate.

Long nights by the inkling of day.

Our front door’s rusted bell.

Tonic with the spike of gin.
Promises, innocence, childhood faith.

That mirror, my bright luck

splintered to slivers.

The pure road by the slashed white line.
Our world, threads unravelling

from its moth-holed weave.

My ribs and bicycle in the same second.

My laugh for weeks after.
Time into months, then minutes.

This sunset by winter clouds.

Your trust, dropped from my hands

like a china cup.