I am thinking over everything I thought / I believed. Its small particles, / its vast rooms of exquisite but broken pieces.
her war so that we / could grieve easy / and decontextualized, the injury soft
I saw / him in the same way I saw the museum. Displayed inside glass: / a man who lived to be dead. For five / thousand years snow was / gentlesweet, preserving him as skin & tufts once-was-hair.
when Missouri prisms up the glass / like the clear pink yes of Sunday morning: / I’ll exit.
A spider the size of a baseball, just in time for opening day, more or less as poisonous as the mine’s boarded-up air.
Longing to go home, we balance freedoms in still-soft palms, swaddle guns like babies, and carry them close to our chests as we march in the bone-splitting cold. Heading straight as the crow, we invite history to circle round.
outline of a head or of a seated figure with a child / is covering what it opens around. Here, someone said, / please take this.
The author’s hand in the scene. // Another metaphor for faith // foreshadowed in the decision // to insure or not insure in case // it will burn. It isn’t a nice house // but a university of suffering.
Some days I relax / in the most beautiful zone and hope / to be struck down, to be disappeared / by an unexpected special attack, but erasure / can't be summoned so easily.