by Kylan Rice
I am not a guest & yet here you weep over my feet.
Religious hair. Empty jar all night. The moth which doubles as both
the small soft ear of the moon & a powdery pharmaceutical.
You once told me the greatest grief
would be to find the same beautiful plates
cracked in half here as everywhere.
Appearing in an all-but-forgotten entrance,
misled down a hallway of helpless discoveries,
you stand in my light, your mouth
inventing a cup to catch spring, a favor, a stone that means something.
I catch you staring at the out of season berry in your cereal:
more a machine than a miracle.
I reach out to touch you, your shoulder
is a clue that leads me to the next room
& then to the next.