To Cross the Path of an Albino Squirrel on Friday the 13th

To hang sconces
so low they could poke
an eye out. To climb
a ladder left
to rot beside
a dead pigeon still
in perfect form. To bruise
the right
wrist when the left
ankle is already packed
in ice. To be so
vulnerable is no more
bad luck than
cracking up in full
length mirrors.

If She Reads Too Much

Into this
collision of events—

an anniversary and
an announcement.
An epitaph nodding

at a long dead
affair gets plastered
with a bill blasting

a live
threat. A reunion

of the soundtrack
that did her in. She could peel
it off—the stone would still

be cool. But these words
are not.