a low green crop, a person walking through it holding an envelope. What’s the harm? The breeze pushes time’s gold eyelid shut. All this way, it carries the clear tangled notes from windchimes on the farmer’s porch. Now, revise heartbreak into something softer, maybe the day before needle and x-ray, the day when the house finch perched in the maple and sang. No, something softer still—the possum, white fur thin as a dandelion, asleep in the trap.