Martha Collins

Late sun clouds

the lake with clouds.

Cold and hot, very and both.

Oh little heart on my wrist,

where are we going?

The one who gave me time

is out of time.

Time to shut the rattling

windows slamming doors

the apple pink

just under the skin:

God is not a Republican

Sumac red, erect,

dead,

Deprived, I heard, not

surprised,

One wasn’t enough,

she needed another and then

another to make a self—