She’s

an addict.
Eerratic
like a zap of static
from fleece to flesh to car

keys.

“Where are you going?”
Says the red sun on the mowing
lips of a boy. His shadow is growing
long on
the lawn.
A quiz
squiggles his
eyebrows in a squint
like maybe what it is really

isn’t.

She flashes him a look
like he’s mistook,
like, ’I’m not a fucking infant.
You’re constantly questioning
and you wonder why I’m running,
why I’m

distant.’