Roadside wreaths taped to poles
or set down in sad, ordinary places
mark moments that tick still
People space can no longer contain
remain in flowers cellophaned,
weighted with rocks and thoughts
that settle like fog in airless pockets.
Passing, I imagine the terrible unpeeling of skin,
pith pulled away from the bones.
Someone’s child doesn’t come home
and the mottled pattern in the tiles
shows a face that the light
breaks over and no angle
can take away.