jealous tourists burn to enter her narrow heart or hole / men dressed as men are genius own / the daylight on their face
The rain drops from the sky, sonorous, pushing // bullet-shape impressions into the sand, he scrambles up the face of the dune.
I am thinking over everything I thought / I believed. Its small particles, / its vast rooms of exquisite but broken pieces.
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.
The wall held the drips, where silence stood, / where she's going. Pray for rain / if you go.
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.