The fountain clogged with plague frogs and our hair

went unwashed. I said no, because you asked

if prayer worked. A hammer works. A man

is work to a mushroom no matter what

he’s buried with–       I know none of this sounds

like an apology, but bear        with me:

the sunflower field was so dazzling

I missed the funeral. My shirt tucked in.

Here’s a country of statues crushed under

the weight of migrating ladybugs.      If

men could, they would melt other men down to

gold.    Mercy, you said, as if the fire

blew itself out. As if the town’s missing

children woke up in the silo unharmed.

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