She writes out the number: Two.
No question, it won’t add up.
How we’re all dying. Getting closer
to it each day. How the anxiety of being

caught in the dark
cellar—door closed, maybe locked,
shades secure on the bridge
of the nose—hurts less than burning

under the sun. Our feathers singed
and unhinged. Our wings bared
and useless as clews
still affixed to a pair of tree trunks

after the deep sag has snapped
to wipe the smile off the hammock.

Now a heap of hemp in the dirt.
The shortest distance between two points
is a straight line no one can walk
forever, or at all. If only we didn’t live

on this slightly squished
and bulging sphere.
Another sign of the beauty
of imperfection all around us.