The things left out would fill an armory:
snow mattresses made out of fresh-cut spruce,
cross hatched, Air-Wicky, noisy in the night;
the thrum his pulse beat the last hundred yards
of a 440; locust shells on trees,
adhesive, alien, empty; new Keds.
Some themes, though do emerge, and many words.
7 poems begin with moon & stars;
and "tears" appears in every single one.
The word for Love. The word for blood. The word
made ink, but never flesh. Not even chance
makes miracles. The moon. The stars. The moon.
The grout between the bathroom tiles. The wind
unrolling the awning. Look: they are not there.