a nebula of flowers has self-abased,

its spent petals circle a jam jar,

their genus lost.
i’ve been instructed on the

benefaction of decay—

the merciless cues.
i read birthday letters with

my eyes closed and pack

postcards from Spain into

shoeboxes crypt-tight.
in the kitchen sink a blushing

cork locates north and a stale

paddock as empty as a punch line. 
i wrap chipped plates in headlines,

let one break into alien continents,

its own atlas.
i enter a room with a made bed.

the ivory sheets remain an effigy

for buckled limbs and midnight cake.
outside, cars play their games.

the neighbour’s grey dog lets itself be known.

Summer carols on, indistinct.