see, the beech tree / never asked to be made palette / for the
lovebirds / armed with blades / gashing their runes / into the bark / scarring trunk / initials standing out / standing tall / for love

The dead bird on the front-door step was a barn swallow. Makhosi recognized the copper face and glossy blue hood that continued towards a forked tail. Its clawed feet were tucked together, as if it had been arranged there. 

Last St. Patrick’s Day I was groped / on the sidewalk outside Tin Roof. / Too much Jameson was how we got there, / waiting for an Uber / that would never show.

Red graffiti says I HAVE DECIDED ABOUT POETRY & it’s like, what did they decide / exactly, that poetry’s so great they left their family moved to the mountains / lived in a little tent in the middle of nowhere writing haikus 24/7? Or did they decide / poetry’s so not worth it

Nearly 21,000 kids are simply unaccounted for in Gaza. They lie under their homes’ stones. / In Idaho, a dry breeze drifts from the sycamore across my windowsills past the lilacs. / I toast sourdough and spread blue cheese dressing, lay down green leaf lettuce, / overlap tomato slices and pile on oven-crisped bacon, feel it crunch under the top bread.

Behind my house are the railroad tracks where Cassidy Jackson found the pair of legs. They were cut just below the knees, but it wasn’t a clean cut; they were crushed, and the bones looked like an Otter Pop had been smashed by a hammer.