Sore-beshitted she was when the old Met was torn down, standing ghost-like by the rubble in her Madame Butterfly kimono as if anticipating her
like water—what it was—to enter—unprepared—the tide moves left—there is nothing to bring to it—I could not gather your things—some things broke instead—a phone crushed
Already in the drowned field they are fishing out the last of the herd, white necks resting on the trunk of the stunted mulberry
Because the car drives too fast into nothing but horizon and other cars look like flowers out of focus, broken alive in fields. Because