white house with blue shutters

There is no easy answer to what comes next, no sign to announce keep this secret. The glass of wine. The evening. You are difficult: holding the cool glance one moment longer than appropriate, as you do all things.

But all things evolve, and quickly: quartz to dust, the gnaw of a questioning mark, the crush of an infant star. Tomorrow, you’ll be a galaxy of trumpets. Or a world of little things I’ve lost or drank in one long drink. (What I do not want.)

But what do I know? A comet passes, unnoticed, and the bad wife strays deep into the forest, to the thorny belly of tall trees. You are the scratch I’ve gotten there: scarlet in the yellow scrape of leaves.