On that Sunday, anything you know
drifts
the glove no longer fits
the man who took it from you
wears it inside out
leaves his sleeves tucked into his collar
ties his shoes when not wearing them
the test-tube lies empty on the bench
ready to roll onto the floor
knowing nothing of its end until it
fractures its death unlike yours
this boot carved its line
on soft ground
dimensions were never shared
fertile onion made sure of it
the trails in the wind that blows
leave marks on the ground
brushing the antlier hair of raven fern
lost in the vague canon of diplomacy