At Night They Have Nothing to Say to Each Other
originally appeared in Lyre Lyre
She makes superglue for a living
adhering balsa airplane parts,
broken vases, fingers
to newspapers, fingers to lips,
workers to factory stations, dolls
to make-believe houses.
It saves science fair project grades,
takes thumb prints, chooses
to smooth or to jumble. It joins together
everything that should be
and messy things that shouldn’t.
Sticking to skin and paper hearts
even if it breaks them.
But he examines gaps
he can press under glass
to study the nil, n—
and aught, narrow and arrow
take apart with tweezers
little lapses from nacre to acre
notion to ocean, light up the fissures
between nascent and ascent
neon and eon
measure the molecules
between what the promise of never is
and what it wanted to be.