After Everything Had Been Spilled

Animals. Plants. Your voice. The morning I woke
and heard the screaming outside. The dog on the bed.
Bread baskets. Light jokes. Falling over ourselves to be heard.
Won’t you take this match and find some flint? Take this
chalk and trace my arms and legs and the way they splayed
on the street like a marionette. A parrot in a minaret.
A blind palm reader reading my mind. Bath salts and Balzac.
I found your hair on my pillow 6 months after Big Sur.
After everything had been spilled.

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