All is not well—the heavens, fallen down

into the water, broken, trembling

beneath the surface. He carried the disease

in on the bottom of his shoes. He brought

destruction on his soles. He passed it forth

to all of us that way. The guilt was true,

extreme and subterranean. This home

is not my world. This word is not my home.

I said I’d love you ‘til the wheels fell off.

I haven’t used the brakes on this machine,

not even once. I vowed to be forever

true to the ephemeral event

of our conjunction. Let’s try this once again

in idiot blind light. Let the sun put on

its morning weeds. Dawn has come again.

Lacy Schutz (NY)  lives in Brooklyn with her husband and is pursuing a master's degree in Library Science. Her work appears in Black Warrior Review, Denver Quarterly, Fence, Gulf Coast, and elsewhere.