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.
