Caducous

This is the way. You don’t see it coming. A stitch in the ribs, breathe caught. The window wide, the trees delirious, lime juice burning bottom lip. Details want to say they told you so. A pebble on the carpet. That wall’s blank again. The woman next door cooks with rosemary, smells like something she can’t say. Ribs stitched, things bleached by sleep. Even the cranes mute, waiting, knowing now what shunts past on its way to the bay. Scavengers all along the tide line. Nothing lost, really. Me, I sleep with nettles, with thorns. Wake with a forgers map of scratches, fumble in mirrors and make up some story about where to go. The wasp thumps against the windowpane.