The bead necklace lay coiled in its box,

wasted gift, while the cutting board softened.

It was a sort of sport, no? The way we

volleyed optimism? Shucks. In the end

we shared our meals unwilling when in lieu

of ambulant wishes, empty dishes 

might have been more filling. Take back your key;

save me, I cling as lichen to these rocks.

What will it take to lid this belching stew?

Daunting familiarity; to’ve met

before we’ve ever met and to carry

my name like the tied stem of a cherry.

No more watch the red sun’s broad amulet

deck low fruit I’d striven for from ditches.