A prophet won’t stand
on line
or wait to be asked
to leave.

A strand of hair
gets baked
into the cake
and ruins her

life. No one remembers
smelling the odor
of singed death
till it returns

to torture a child
into adolescence.

A carpet whisperer
and light whisperer
laugh under
a half full moon.

They read fractured myths
and ingredient lists
to one another
without squinting

or harming the soles
of their feet.
They remind each other
not to forget

the boy who sold rugs
most of a life
snuffed out
too soon.

A visit
to Vertical Endeavors
could help her
confront her vertigo

or push her too far
off the wall.
She would rather grasp
a real cliff rock

overlooking a remote hollow
and risk
falling into
a black hole

where there are no alternatives
to the truth.

He tries not to stare
at the woman.
She could have been
in a brawl,

or it’s Ash Wednesday.
A dandelion print
drapes legs and the walk
they take

to see and be seen.
A High Line modern
dance performance
ends early.

He remembers how
she would toss
out the first pancake
and close her eyes

before blowing the seeds
off a dandelion globe.

By nightfall
to another day,

her mercy wheel has disappeared,
and murderous mistakes
made with a pencil
don’t add up.