Perfect stitches suture the glass, & if patient enough
watch them disappear.
Like the dead dog in the middle of the road, the invisible
dog that an ice cream truck hit & the rest of us
skirted. Was the last thing tasted
the last thing?

It whimpers, the muzzle of the dog head; the hackles
become rimed with diamante. I say:
here are lucent things.
When frost arrives, it has the soul of famine,
but also catatonic the headlights as the crow flies.