there is a ride called the Zipper—red, blue,
yellow-painted, girls shrieking from the upside-

down cages, the grass below lit and littered.
There is a summer evening scored by the hiss

and buzz of the mosquito zapper. There is
a bowl of mojitos in a crowded kitchen,

the first taste of mint and lime and fizz
shaming the limpening muscles of sorrow.

There is a sparrow falling and arcing up
and falling again into a gold-tinged yard.

There is a gold-hinged locket
in an unlocked box; inside, a photograph

of the future. There is a bright, odd morning
when the cold is a lockbox, and icicles spike

the eaves like gorgeous weapons. There is the ease
with which one twilight becomes one night

becomes the next morning. There is the highlight
and lowlight on the lake, the inlet, the sound

at sunset. There is the sound at sunset
of neighborhood beagles crying down the distance,

and the knowledge that this is what will remain.
Sometimes the minutes add up to an old song

and radio crackle. Sometimes they add up
to that movie, you know the one, with the kids lost

in the woods and the good ending. Sometimes
they add up to spinning and shrieks and the girls

on the Zipper. Always they add up to a plea for more,
a hand closing around nothing, then opening again.