Broken Pencils

the numbers spent her. in long conversations and brief ironies. flesh like a telescope. defying the distance between us.

she stumbled. in the loose soil emerging.

no reference. only the crest of the hill as anchor. and the view going down.

a tender wall. loose bricks. and the tremble of our winnowing commitment.

small confessions. drops of poison masquerading as medicine.

she spent the sickness like a treasure. rich with the ransom of the disease. she arranged the matchstiicks. as each flame expired.