It’s possible we once danced by the light of the solstice moon, runcible drunk, hunched over streetcar tracks to flatten a penny— the only
You sit on a stool across the butcher-block bar, plastic bag sagging around the box of hair color and the bottle of wine you
praise the way the stairs hang in infinity rise to the attic where old histories are stored: dressmaker’s dummy, butter churn, a dusty sextant–
moth on the glass and the moth on the window screen ever so lightly my fingers on the screen and the moth flies up