The lover who says I’m sorry, I just
don’t want you anymore.
I woke up and the light
had gone out.

The father who, quiet in a chair on the porch,
seen in silhouette against
the tall grass at dusk,
is actually dead,
has been that way since morning.

They lie on a table in a sunny room.
Also on the table, cartoned in sixes,
is everything and -one
you have ever loved or wanted.
There are infinite boxes and
none can be told apart and
every rich yolk is quickening in its shell.