by Virgil Renfroe

Rare are the responses we are waiting for.
But, I love the way a hyacinth sounds,
salt engine banging underneath its stalk.
Turn a hyacinth upside down
nothing much happens.
Whip a hyacinth around with great velocity
until g-forces grab its innards, though,
and out comes what
makes the yard taste better.
Vastly important, as the unsuspecting heart
so often snagged by the suspect lover
must get good at eating dirt.
Much that seems whole is in pieces.
In a basement bar in Greensboro
my friend Matt’s mouth opened up
like a vortex in reverse
and out came all the playground sand
and Fay and Marcus and myself
were three bottle rockets
tied together and simultaneously lit.
Everyone awaited the boom.
Instead we live in different towns.
Ask your refrigerator for the secret
all it does is hand you some milk.

VIRGIL RENFROE writes and teaches in Greensboro, NC. Recent poems appear in Rialto, Forklift, Ohio and Sixth Finch.