I wanted the world to forget me, and so it did.
We allowed the natural disaster of our sympathies
soak everything we ever owned. We only owned
our livers for a while. It was the consequence of
weather. It was our very hope, to be wrecked by it.
In the tin mailbox at the end of the drive, two cicadas
made a home, which articulated promise.
The very way we spoke of last year
pressing one small foot against the skin of this year.
In the everyday actual, the sad geometry of a cloud
by wind rose up, mouthed a word, moved along.