I’m a little confused.
We were crowbar sweethearts—
remember the lengths we’d go for pomegranates?
I’m reliving it now, in fact,
watching a poor starling on the porch kill itself with a red potato,
swallowing every eager peck.
Maybe I’m just waking up,
which means I never lost
my tambourine’s strap in ankle-deep litter,
& we can forget about the delirium in the mirror.