By Jade Ramsey
So many white Camrys fall from the trees
this spring. They pretend
to be petals; I’m not fooled—
their plates are all from Carolina.
I wore a pink satin sash,
but you didn’t come. And I have
no proof of us. This photo on my fridge
still deceives me and I also
have a compliment in ink: a really nice font,
you wrote. Indeed. The blown wick glows.
How long does its smoke tizzle
into the air—how long can I smell caustic?
Until I inhale only cold. Trace of char
darkness. Echoes of coins
dowse a basket of flowers.
Clutching at Straws 