Dear I don’t know why it doesn’t work, / I’m sure (and have been) still / lights in / attics of torn- / down houses burn.
and he tossed / his leash made of stars, then tightened it, // around the antlers it seems I forget, always, / about having.
Had we known its connotations, the way a word / can rot like fruit, the outer layers growing / vulnerable and soft.
If you’re looking / for the perfect poem / to read at your wedding, / I have some questions for you:
the line they murmur / is always the same: / Do you want to dance upstairs, // from behind? / You can have all of us. It will be // like a forest. / And how much does the house / take? I ask.
When I was three or four, I buried / Several hard-gained marbles / Near our rented room, hoping one day / They would grow into magic trees