The last of the moon needled beneath a tree & the wires that rarely carry voices anymore. A chair of books at the window, up under the curtains & the yard on the other side. Like a housefly. Like an acute trapezoid when, after drinks, your best friend’s older sister takes your hand under the table. Out of sight, bodies inching closer in the pool & she guesses the combination fixed to the day & month of your father’s birth. Years later, you’re hoping you remembered the stamp, a return address at least & still the strange man comes at you with his knife. Or that’s another night &, as though on a flying trapeze, everyone you kissed or ever wanted shows up & the flowers turn from gorgeous to something else entirely. Like they’re caught by the wheel of a truck & the crows up there an accident too, should one believe in accidents.