And when the rains came like lean wolves
we were ready.
The white slap of the moon after hail gone throughivy to silver April’s first green blades: There I listened
Cézanne doesn’t paint what he sees.His apples are orange.
I am more than the world you asked me to be—
Bow to the peaches heavy and timeless, wrapped in sheets of cool.
My daughter throws up once or twice a day opening mouth then hands as if to pour out what was once clenched. Throws up pillows, backpacks, and refrigerators. Builds a version of our cat from pretend vomit, builds a version of our kitchen. I...
Took a series of self-portraits on my bed: one hand over my right eye then left as if to mimic another’s gaze.
They call it kneading / as in dough or massage, this act // of pawing at my bathrobe / by kittens.
Sometimes, a teacher proposes / we write about something / insignificant, or a friend requests // that poems and posts not get so / political.
In the Old Dictator’s obituary, a charming anecdote—
When the Old Dictator was a boy, his father saved his wagesfor a month to buy his son a watch.