Dead Man’s Hand

Then he drew a cloud
to hold all the love

letters I wrote
to all those objects

of my obsession. Before
digital mapping the whereabouts

of my heart, there was the weather
and pleas for stamps.

Linen

From anxiety to anatomy
of influence, thievery gets defined. Found
beneath invisible matrix lines, each love

letter wears thins till nothing
shows through but the see through
garment of regret. Is that our inheritance?

Can it be something other than
glitter on silk-screened
flowers—daisies or wisteria drive me

up the stucco wall. Nothing precious
about that garden you wear
on your chest—beyond our trembling reach.