In lieu of goodbye I send

a tiny house in the mail, flimsy

porcelain talisman a weak

barricade. Like Joni I become

cellophane, no personal 

defenses, the wrapper on

a pack of cigarettes, the dirt

on the road of your espresso

cup — in sand in bone you 

will learn to drink it. I let

the machine watch

as you return to safety or maybe

never leave, how can we

ever be sure; the hands

of the clock turned to mortal 

peril at all times. To assign

certainty when all we have 

are watercolor pomegranates 

and faint prayers at peace, a rosary

no longer in use but still

in motion.