As illness makes us live hour by hour,
revising our day as we go.

As winter plants a great snowy
foot in our path.

As glass baffles the fly.

How rosy can you be
without money?

As war when it comes. If it comes.

A boarding pass for a defunct airline
found in the lining of an empty purse.

Garbage blown up against
a wire fence—held there by wind.

The fence itself.

The slippery skin
between layers of an onion.

Is it the sort of day
to ask a hard question?

This isn’t the right time.

Suddenly the line goes dead.

We are without a map.

This appeared in the October 2012 issue.

Robyn Sarah will publish a new collection, My Shoes Are Killing Me, in April.

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