This vase doesn’t belong here. These flowers should be near you, instead of still with me.
I wanted to plant the wine bottle in your apartment like a magic bean, sprouting lush growth, clearing the air all day in your absence.
I walked out of the bar, clumps of frothy crystal slipping and skidding to the ground, losing altitude. Each one headed for a crash.
I turned down the streets, left, two straights, another left. I became a refuge for the flakes, a traveling airstrip.
There’s no yellow tape around us, no CNN, no NTSB to issue the report: Near miss? Minor collision? Pilot error?
Five words to you, five weeks ago, would have changed this poem.
— ca. 2011