The neighbor who never smiles steps out
of his dress shoes in a parking space, leaves
their velvet mouths to soak, tongues still
lapping the milk-round bellies of clouds.
There are no clues, only pennies pressed
in fresh asphalt, smell of burn, black windows
reflecting the same sunken face, until one day
I see through—she’s surrounded by stacks
of folders to be filed. Destroyed. Sometimes
you never know. I wait for his bus to corner,
but in every dream I have he isn’t on it.
He’s always in the field they found. Sting
of a needle lost. The fruit he asked me
to name, there, rotting on the ground, grass
rippling with flies. I watch the creep
of vine on picket. Or maybe you become
the ghost you’re looking for. If only we
were home now it’d be summer yet, but no—
the dandelion spores keep morphing into snow.