Something on the water. Something
wholesome, like spoiling corn crops
or sparking a tri-state wildfire. Or
a bit of glamour, like stopping glass
elevators in casinos, between floors,
then dropping them. I’m tired
of small catastrophe, the delicate
balance between shrugged-off accident
and tiny horror. Fits of pique, bursts
of desperate memory, tireless, dull
annoyance: How many brittle ankles
can be wrenched in holes? How many
jugs of milk can be soured before time?
How many smashed heirlooms, rained-
out parades, singed fingertips, coins
dropped in grates, stained blouses
before business meetings? How
many shiny balloons are there still
to burst?