Small Desert

The basil died in August,

or maybe July. I wasn't

paying attention, which

is the point.

I bought the terracotta pot in April

with starts of basil and thyme,

two small green gestures

toward the kind of person

who tends things.

Now the soil is cracked

into a pattern that looks ancient,

continental — fissures mapped

across six inches of dirt

like the earth rehearsing

its own collapse in miniature.

One stem still stands.

Dry, colorless, stripped

to a kind of bone.

I flick ash off the balcony railing

and think about how easy it is

to want something alive near you

and still not water it.

The cracks don't close.

They just get more precise.