Osiris

He stood there at the end of the parade like an apology, like scattered coffee beans, like wreckage in the lime trees.

I would love him to his own demise.

The last time on the floor in the living room, the movers had taken everything. I was late for work, but I could smell a chance, like something whispering, the rented moment.

He lay with his back to me, the curtains closed to the afternoon, billowing like something wanted into the room.

I am sad like this. I want what I can get. I will scavenge. It's an Osiris curse.

Hold plank against the broken window, muffin crumbs the measure of morning, and the espresso stains on the mug rorschaching.

There are no more words with grace. When I open my mouth they bounce off the lighting fixtures and chip the concrete floor.

How he'd look among the pillows and sheets, always just found, something always lost and found, lost to be found. Again.