that afternoon you were angry with me but i promised in my head and to the grooves in the tile that it wasn't my fault. a hundred thousand ants might crawl under our stove from the back of your black pattern sandals but you wouldn't have noticed.
the backyard is wet, now, with the first fall rain; the snow sneaks up on boots.
my locket is empty now. Deringer's piece of smithery, now, a brief memorandum on summer's throat.