Half Ginkgo

Like that dream where you’re pulling out a wild hair
and it keeps getting longer and longer until you have
great piles of it all over the floor and then it catches,
stops spooling, and you realize you would end up
pulling out your entire insides if you continued,
or when you’re driving down the highway and
your father’s right hand extends through the
windshield for that farewell handshake
at last, fake kettle steam on a cold
winter morning can be equally,
if not more so, deceptive—
for unlike with the others
nothing is achieved: no
iron struck between
our sustenance
and heat.