Conyer Clayton

Wilt

He picked chamomile flowers

on his walk home from work, reaching

through a chain-link fence

into an abandoned property.

Set them on a plate to dry, petals

down and stems snipped

on the windowsill for weeks.

They float limp

in my mug, stain

hot water brown.

Footprints

A lifespan seen clearly c

an crush a ribcage,

bones splintered—

birch bare shell.

Stretched and heavy

regardless of time.

A hole

is a hole

despite

what fills it.