Another failure
to deliver the expected
outcome. At night, scant thunder taps
at the window like the promise
of an elopement, and I lie on my
hands, to stop them tapping
back. Rain
cataracts just above the thought-
field, the day’s stems breaking
open. I read about a woman
who can comb
a meadow with a single
look, tell you where the subject stepped
six months ago,
through observance
of tiny stalk
depressions. I have combed
and combed myself, found only
Latin names, friends
not lovers, distinct lack of
indentation