The Absence on Sunflower Street
by J. Nehemiah

Runestone, volume 8

Windchimes drip omittance from the mimicked
hallow of mouths. Oxidation is a third

of the timescale mapped in cross-
road puzzles strewn across the floor. You know

what I mean. As in the iron deposits
scrambling to preclude the machinima. Walk on

grass and the sunflowers still suckle sunlight
under the closure of a shadow. This C sharp

is a dandelion after all. Every note borrowed,
a quotation mark left on possession —I will own 

the tomato plant growing in the backyard
forever—Be it that the chimes 

second guess their involvement in our hello’s,
our emphasis on the human condition, minor 

grievances, and the subtlety of crossed
legs and crossed —They are. In mannerisms, there is

none better than the gaping of mouths. Of windchimes
dangling like mackerels over the porch. Catalysts 

before they oxidize, one third
of the way through.