certain of the big outer planets

sky's been gray for a week. the grass a greedy green.
some crumpled care, like the side of a silver suv today.
could have been you. could be you. why do i always picture
death when a habit begins it break? funny, i

don't know that i'd miss you too much. not much more
than small black birdie, batted with my poingish racket.
let's keep it up in the air, skirting this net i put i between us.
you can think of stockings. meanwhile, i'll keep

clinging to bad habits that seem holographically real.
i always have trouble letting go of the tiniest things.
dust mites and scrabble tiles. the impossible requests
you've had me make. the insides of your arms