The explosion was pure bad taste,
though its mum above the desert added another regretful abstract
on beauty to the files.
Cross-referenced under hideous/extreme, it was another hybrid
of insecurity’s green thumb.
We all do this out of amazement and lifelong talking to the air.
Not prayer, but for a moment the other
living inside us is given external life
to file the motions and briefs of amended sorrows.
I will never catch up is one. This morning I saw a new spider
in the ilex, two striped vermillion,
but I will not find it in the always deficient guidebook
or find out why it never sticks to its own web.
Ollie appeared to be resting in her death drawer, resting and listening
to the talk and singing in her gold sequins
each a silent owl’s eye, an elaborate example of exquisite limitations.
No Tuesdays. No blooms. No Fodor’s in tomorrow.
Not thinking back to only a stunning moment ago.
Allan Peterson | Fragile Acts | McSweeney’s, 2012