7" x 4 1/4"
27 pgs


DUSK

     The chime of an ice cream truck
     materializes. A moth ticks obliquely
     against a darkening screen.

             (This could be any world.
             This could be any nerve.
     
     This
     is the crucially useless circus
     in which I rehearse the bruise
     I miss you.

             There will always be
             a hand beyond
             weather—
     
     fire’s immediacy
     sharpest in frost.