Our Little Hope

this arbor of my regret grown thin reaches down and in about the bog of his neglect, like withered grass against a wasting log. I keep a log, too. one, two, three times he took me on the stairs in the unfinished garage. the way he whiles it whilst adobe chunks defeated by the desert sun fall from his exterior, and dust. a fall is absorbed in me by the bodies of muskrats bathing in green jennywort and jewel-slinged alligator babies playing gaily twixt copper cedar knees that do poke out- even if they play dead when the sun gives up.