Sunday, July 5, 2020


following Stanley’s trail of ripped newspaper
the first scrap I see says “dissecting” 
and the next one “Searching” 

I put my hand out the car window
palm facing up
in the side mirror I’m holding fireworks
and straight ahead
the full moon

this second covid world
is a shattered mirror
I point the sharp edges at myself 
and the letting go never stops

Stanley’s scraps aren’t a sign
those aren’t my fireworks
it’s not my moon
I flip my palm