Loose Ends

by G. Nash

MY dealer says roll 'em thin
The stuff's getting scarce as him.

Recognize the fluid: iris in the snow
hungry for spring -- spinning sand below.

The missing six or so dimensions visually
unhinge: shifting fascinations. . . a queasy

willingness to disappear followed by desire
to re-enter and remain a bit longer in the fire.
Either you can, or you can't -- there's no room
to negotiate anything less than doom.

The mud flows over the bricks and trees.
Roots delta the hillsides -- no place for us
not this town, not any more for us
though it'll be a bit before we get to leave.

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