by Ellen Kombiyil
Looking back, we spill from the car onto a black expanse that is not shimmering.
It is nighttime; therefore lakes and lawns are visual equivalents of homophones.
If in moonlight Y flings her beer, then I in unison flick my hair.
I is equivalent to Y and Z, milling around the shrubbery.
Only the grass is certain, certain of an equation. Only the lawn resisting shimmering refuses a replacing.
Let I rest against the tree, a solid that is splintering.
If night-bark furrows, then history can be shed.
Let sprinklers equal X, an absence that is manifest.
Now solve for bare feet glisten. Now step on constellations.