The flower picked
. is now shriveled dry
around my ear. I leave it there
because it reminds me of
waking up this morning on a railing,
of the telephone pole that cut
the sky in two. It lit up the man
with four paper bags,
one with a slight rip,
walking up stairs like some things
are worth trying. Like why not? Like
could go two ways. Like effort is submissive
to what’s already happening or what’s already
happening next. Like the part of something
farthest away from its own
center. If the groceries
. remain: tuna dead
and can inanimate, the stairs and
dirt stacked shiftless, if the man
is steady, and did buy a lime, there’s also a chance
he’ll make it. To shove a wedge
in a Pacifico. To continue happening
until the bottom of a bottle holds
only carbonated pulp,
. until all’s unlit
and skin is fruitless.