I’ve hit the wagon again, that time,
overestimated. Breathing egret. The peace
of coral, the color, feeds artist borrowers,
the recent manmade smoke and mirrors

Bees are tactile spots of disbelief in a field of air. The idea of them is almost exhilarating. Amid the dogwoods of nearby suburbs, banks in acute distress are closed. Phenomena in the wake of those who are cold become pellucid. The principle of a held breath is no more a god than a person altered by existence.

I think I prefer now being unloved
and listening for my footsteps in the dark.

I have in the past diluted my true views because
they are my feeling and thoughts—
years that’s all it was—

spike face crow
come out of no
and right hand
sky go down

Hello.
Solicitations and grief
from the pharaohs who stole our horses.