As cloven love signs separate Christmas cards,  

precious potsherds spider every meal and

beggar apprehension like a poster

for a concert that’s already occurred.

Cloven love, tendered like a cup of tea, 

remains a hand’s length from small outstretched hands

while intent stains the methodology 

of real neglect very dark green. What gulf

might be allotted in between, yet cleave

a disarticulated locket? Fruits

that settle far apart, if near the roots,

can make me want to tear out my own leaves,

pore through sheddings for evidence of growth. 

Then again, it’s my chore to rake the yard.