by Dora Malech
I snap the twig to try to trap the springing and I relearn the same lesson. You cannot make a keepsake of this season. Your heart’s not the source of that sort of sap, lacks what it takes to fuel, rejects the graft, though for a moment it’s your guilty fist that’s flowering. You’re no good host to this extremity that points now, broken, back at the dirt as if to ask are we there yet. You flatter this small turn tip of a larger book of matches that can’t refuse its end, re-fuse itself, un-flare. Sure. Now forget again. Here’s a new green vein, another clutch to take, give, a handful of seconds.