the shoes become comfortable.
you bend from the knees.
the neighbor’s baby moves to syracuse
becomes a carpenter
refinishes bowling alleys
and two retrievers
have their hallowed graves
beneath a bed of creeping thistle.
you play with their toys in the yard
and drink from their sparkling bowls.
the man you loved killed you
with his ambivalence,
as a hurricane does.
it took so long to build a body
that stiffens now at the smell of rain.
like everyone else, you traveled west
to try dying from exposure.
moved around in crowds and
called your heart a queenless hive.
you admonished gods with the
spirit of something small
and hunted
and still praise this universe that raised you
from one of a billion silent stars.