Art by Zed Van der Linden

a broken lamp taped together in the corner of my room

summer bugs at night when leaving a lover’s car while the inside light is on
and the door is open—say, in August

persimmons, plums, pomegranates

the nothing after a morning started in the afternoon

a melodica from my father (from his) from Germany

children on asphalt, dipped in chlorine and drying in radiation

wind against wet hair, frizz that follows

three hats—lilac, ochre, moss—all crocheted six months apart

the wearing down of the inside of my right shoe,
the sole pulling away at the heel

the way hot oil turns white onion translucent,
the way soap cleans day from hands