The heart is a knot dark in pine.
My fingertips are stained pecan.
The backs of my hands itch.
There is nothing worth bombing.
Sawdust powders my clothes, rises
aloft, pixie dust in staid suburbia.
We spent the whole day cleaning the garage.
From here I can smell Afghanistan.
What good are the old forms? You
haven’t sucked my tongue in a month
or more. I trail grass clippings
through the clean rooms. The kids spy a rat
scuttling towards our unused writing
desk. The papers are unscribbled.
Every two minutes another flight makes its way to Newark
through a sky unleveled and dishonest as our last kiss.