My pagan hands, capable enough for this task of packing / away glass birds and painted wooden stars, / have again proven too clumsy to hang onto you. / I hear the whispers. No matter how gently / I remove the ornaments, showers of needles rush to the floor.
The heroes have autographed the table again / with their glasses, rings of condensation / in looped cursive circles that interrupt / / each other’s epics.
But for now, the lunch eaters are sleeping. You / are waking up, or brewing coffee, or making love / to someone else. What a strange April this is.
