She sat in a lounge chair with her long toes pointed towards the water. It was a Tuesday, she thought, but that didn’t mean anything. She reached for her drink. Mornings were no longer a time of day, just after she got up. She assumed it was still earlier than noon based on the angle and the heat of the sun.
I’m Not Carlos
There is a whole forest of tree machines in central Maine that have been programmed to turn on me. I’m certain of it. When I am absolutely silent, I can hear them plotting. It sounds like a gentle wind.
Spica
Habitat of obdurate melancholy,
the center lands of
minute consequence, rank
The Box
What did you learn from the dead?
To turn cold in stages to stage
bleed an invisible instant goddamn
Letter From Prison #2
us with no light
the dog edging its nose
out the window and snapping the air
Prisoner’s Wreath #2
This charcoal way surrounds my spot in dust
Dusty property the grit of the word
Word it so the song persists in a trust
