Stop in composure–not the only thing
crumbling to mud, white apple
sweet as flash-frozen trees
full of mandolin tunes. Winding
hurts her, the tips, no tolerance
for the way she talks about fingers
in the woods, more than the fabrication
allows, filter. When the bark stops
shaking, I’m willing to be the one
to find out: cigarette burns always
perfect irises, without second sight.
Juniper candles, lavender bouquets
for deep shade… Moon’s hide-out,
looking for water but the door handles
keep falling off my car. Don’t trust me,
not yet, I’ve been bending backward
my whole life, spine full-circle,
why should it perform differently now?
After all this time, when it rains
in Florida, worms don’t follow.