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.