You are sticky blossoms in dark closets,
Listerine pouring through crevices,
Hands grabbing rock and pulling themselves
up and over, the kind of sports
brothers play, anthems to sweaty Greek gods,
sundrenched sky and porcelain air.
Here is the hard angle that sets itself against us;
This world is an imperfect mirror, it throws back
rocks and dinner plates, cold locker rooms in January,
a sparrow fallen to the sidewalk
next to the rushing sounds of the freeway.