scab

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