today (again) it isn't anything --
a bud pretending loneliness, failure --
always bending the obvious (the drowning).
For now, I'm kin with longing.
Colored plastic veining the tethers
of our lives where elsewhere ________.
Letters climb, binding fences. Shovels
feign contrition, photography.
The body is represented, sometimes.
Or perhaps that is only a trick --
a kneecap, an elbow -- the imagined
spine that, when unknitted, sings
and spells a better self. If we could
gather mirrors, it'd be easier. We
must try harder to remember.