I tried to put my hand underneath your leg.
The hyperbole rocked the house. We were depressed
enough about it. Then time froze your face into a drying plum.
I handed you my business card that says I am not in charge
of this depression. Enough about death. Our
company falls like an airplane into the dark map. You sketch it falling.
Somebody we didn’t know dies as a reminder. This little puff inside my chest
is below my stomach or to its left like an unlit firecracker, a
tiny balloon somebody blew up that stays there not quite
over my heart. The diagnosis is
you can bring the house down with death.
