Regretfully yours,

The note read,

“I’m sorry.”

I found

your white sock

tucked into a ball


underneath my bed

last night-

I had already

thrown the mate


Schrodinger’s third space

just past witching hour.
not midnight like the stories say,
when yesterday breaks into tomorrow,
at 4am, the third space,
translucent slices of time
I’m driving.
the road a path

no alpha, no omega
the clock suspended

until time presses forward-
the possibility still exists
of you
lying beyond its end


the little things

just before daybreak
moonlight through the windowpane 

each vertebrae casts stark shadows
along the soft curve of your spine

you’ve turned away in your sleep