The vending machine contains its
small grief, too.
At the oncologist’s office, my bones are seen
from a bird’s-eye view:
an inexact sweet trap. A car horn in a tunnel.
I lament along with the shopping carts.
They are the only ones at home
at the end of the world—saying
it’s safe now to come out
and to drift weirdly away.
I can still make love. First the zipper then the sound
of the zipper
and every second in between meaning:
I am five miles further from the moth trapped
in my X-ray.
Don’t we amputees
have such a gentle way of saying goodbye—
on your chest softly with our heads?
I am the last pair of bright headlights mowing through deer.
God hatches a plan and then another.