Only small things, a moment,
a book title, the minutes
it costs to think of you.

The ends of conversation,
served, a chip of being.
The loosed love,

hovers.

A savory
is refused.

The empty glass
a refill.

Tomorrow is left
out of me.

It lies like the last
syllable

of my shriveled
lexicon.

I am unraveled and
like thought itself
I go

away

from even the

thought

of you.


Caroline Shank
7.19.2024