Scott Beck
Pick Up Sticks

My hands, when the curtain falls I believe in you. Every bit of

furniture pulsing with trust worsens to ash. I’d turn to see it,

and when I no longer blinked the leaves, wasps poured out the eaves.

A cup of sugar the white of weather, while a glass tips casually brown.

The business of the bald, the castings of the street. Trash day samples

glide in the blow. Ordinarily I rest my finds,

just today I can’t look.