Glass: the only thing to show for all
the planning, wrapped in arms, arms
wandering for years, the right arc soul
searching. “Mystic coincidence” he says,
but that doesn’t create an outline,what
are we supposed to follow? Level out,
my aim gives my poker hands away.
They build cement boxes on the curbs
so nothing can hide behind the grass.
Out the windows, mist is whittled
down, black skies, but gray areas are
the most beautiful. Life is how it is,
not how it was… razor clams, misfit
shells bigger than feet cut deep when
we try to get to far-shore, only salted
wounds now, rough foliage, not meant
for us. Just because your center card flips—
Hanged Man, doesn’t mean you’re hanging.