Somehow the after-days kept their structure.

My bus followed its scheduled

route, the usual people hopped on
and off. One day, I began finding

pumice in my yet-unmade bed, as light

rolled about the world like a pair of socks.
Then in the left-hand pocket of my jacket –

and on the strewn floor of the shower; every

where the ruin of an underworld.
On another, I found two on the turntable

of the microwave. And when I walked the weekend

streets, they clinked – clattering about my
forgotten feet; but soon after, I just enjoyed

kicking them away, watching them

scatter from the heart’s broken moment.
Yes, there is usually a quiet Krakatoa

beyond the brightening horizon that no one

notices. Sometimes you even hear it.