in a complicated reel. In February, flowers in full bloom

line the neighbors’ walk—no Latin name, no roots,

just green wire lifting elaborate ruffles of plastic—

mustard yellow, crayon red, panty pink—stiff

as the slogans in your last post.

Scroll down the oil and water stories, see how they all refuse

to emulsify, no matter how hard you stir. Even at home

no two of us recall the same ornaments, condiments,

arguments—who started the damn quarrel, who stole

the show, who pried open every cupboard to expose

our patched notions and puzzle bones.

Each picture’s worth a thousand lies. In our photoshopped

exchange you can overlay any scene with Armageddon.

Who notices the stock shots of another day or decade,

another city? You get so dizzy looking, you just

can’t turn away. We’re still the same

gullible kids we were

whirling on the playground, our jackets billowing—red,

blue, yellow—opening petals of the nonsense garden

where you can’t make out whether it’s you

or the world that spins,

shaky as a top.