Provisions

Photo by Pedro

The courier asked if I was back
but he knows I refuse to harvest.
I only collect, marred by yellow

wages and groves and writing
waves of mercy, heat, or radio.
I tend, in fact, to catch fractions

to avoid storms of light, my fault
lines. The courier relies on moths
to yell into windows and singe

assorted chains, so I’m married
to his manner of retrieval, reliefs.
What I do is wait, mainly, leave

candles writhing until I know
this: to sow, punish, yes, to
mask such that it looks as it is.