how normalcy is a dream
a barn door in a Christmas tree garden creaks
parents arguing the difference between a
widened fern and a tall spruce
both could account for an angel at the top of
their tree
a last ditch effort to make something whole
with an angel baby
my roommate peels a plum with her fingers in
our ruminated argyle kitchen
scraping the juice and the knife and ambiguity
through the air
it’s September and June and March all at once
humble digits weaving through
silken strands as the pantry rots
it’s September and June and March on the clock
once more I wisp away crumbs from my sheets and the edges of my pancreas
wringing it dry on linens so that it can consume
more pieces of dust and fishnets and glitter and eyeshadow and everything
else that I saw through the window of a Blockbuster
the screen enhanced just for seven year old whimsy
rotting in the covers of this repeating entendre
it’s September and June and March again
an angel, baby