It is not the moon, I tell you.
These flowers lighting the yard
make things far more lonely.
Petunias, oleander, viscous
petals and chrysanthemums,
my God, chrysanthemums.
I hate them.
The constant drip of a question,
a promise or premise of union
from your saline nasal spray
in a cupboard locked,
the key on a ring
in your backpocket.
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