There you go again, Alice, with your rabbit. What now?
Let me guess. It’s the old question about time, and
why you can’t see it, exactly, even as it leaves traces
everywhere while this visible abundance of space makes
a mystery of itself by including the atmosphere
with no evidence to label: this. It cuts you.
You should eat something. Here. Apple slice?
This, at least, is visible. Maybe also at most.
See the lilac, its leaning posture even in rest.
Now the oak, raining leaves.
Will love save any of it? I can’t tell you, Alice.
I am not laughing at you. Okay, a little. Here,
have another slice. I know you want to know
if it’s enough, but what are you counting:
Look, only a machine will move in reverse.
Your question is moot, muted by necessity
of movement between stations and the
fact that you are still hoping for a chance
to erupt from this constellation of endings
into a singular, magnificent bloom.