This is adhesion without regard. The sun
warms wool sleeves but don’t forget it’s still
cold; you are gapping and what I have
is less. I was born for something, but it might not
be this. Today I passed stunted boxwoods
pruned round, smelled the small leaves’ tang jammed
on overlapping panes of sky like fat citrine enamel
but I had to keep walking, scraping it from my fingernails.