Miranda likes to point stuff out.
Walking hand in hand with her down the street
she’ll note the colours of the blossoming
trees,
or a bird sitting high up on some branch,
or the interesting billowing of the clouds.
I don’t notice these things. Never have.
When I tell Miranda this she says
“you’re supposed to be a poet”, and I reply
that the only thing more boring than nature
is nature poetry. She smiles
and the pixels of her hand sink through mine
like sand through a funnel. She dissipates;
the street sucks up every trace of her.
“Was her name even Miranda anyway?” I ask
as I watch the pavement’s sutured lips
