Tiny Livings (excerpt)



Mother works the garden

through a glass of water

tinted rose

with blood.


The apple of

your mind

has a worm-

hole in it.


Toss the dice.

Call her.

Or loosen your sleeves

to show her

the scars

whitening your wrists.




Scan the sky.

Then look at the strange

people gathered nearby

on the rock range.


They are sinewy

and broken

and newly



But they are.

They push.



Even the stars

figure in.

Push. Restart.


-Salvatore Difalco