The moon, dimmed and 
  fat, reigns in a sky 
  bleeding brine. I'm 
  the rebound girl again,
  bipolar as a flat line; 
  he's trading stocks 
  and vagabonds 
  a city block away. 

  I'm a paintable 
  nativity scene 
  raked under 
  a month of leaves;

  flattened autumns
  and soggy buttergolds 
  that gutter
  layer by layer 
  in small streams of runoff.

  April air takes another puff
  of four-four time and 
  drags it through a straw
  from here to there
  from here to there.
  At the corner, crosswalk rubble 
  scatters like treasure birds 
  taking flight. I burrow my 
  face against the crook of a sleeve 
  in my red jacket.