The moon, dimmed and
fat, reigns in a sky
bleeding brine. I'm
the rebound girl again,
bipolar as a flat line;
he's trading stocks
and vagabonds
a city block away.

I'm a paintable
nativity scene
raked under
a month of leaves;

flattened autumns
and soggy buttergolds
that gutter
layer by layer
in small streams of runoff.

April air takes another puff
of four-four time and
drags it through a straw
from here to there
from here to there.
At the corner, crosswalk rubble
scatters like treasure birds
taking flight. I burrow my
face against the crook of a sleeve
in my red jacket.