Even nothing heals
It ravels and unravels
Then coyly coils up into a bow
A present from the fringes of space
Waffling between hate and annoyance
At the lack of access to anything else to feel
A hot gust of flying ants and grass shrapnel
Is how you should picture this
My parents made love in the chimney
My brother wrecked Christmas
My cousin is stuck on Easter Island
Sometimes I see him on postcards screaming
It's the dust motes in the light
That cats love to bat and wonder at
Given each alone the mote or the light
They couldn't care less
So much is still waiting behind the right combination, right?