old fashioned words unapologetic for the crispness of close consonants
and the first click in the finger joint after the needle’s steroid deposit
the slow breaths you coax as counterpoint to anxious thoughts at night
and the spinning echo of clothes tumbling in the dryer
the woody smell of rosemary next to sparse fringes of lavender
and felted caterwauling calls of barred owls
the pale clean stump where a camellia bush used to stand
and the underpattern of roots beneath the grass
a letter that wounds whenever it’s read
and a ransom that won’t ever be paid
the feeling you get looking up into fruiting branches
and the electric hum from cicadas’ tymbals as their torsos contort
peaches that drowned a brown sugar taste in the beer
and your fear of the season’s first slow-moving storms
the fat on the back of a slab of brisket
and the jar of bird chillies in a drawer
the clock on the mantel that never keeps the time
and the piles of small change you keep finding through the house