I’ve had my head in the clouds so long
I don’t know how to climb back to my body.
In dreams my head is buried in the sand
and I make no effort to lift it.
When I was your age I suffered from acne, too,
was warned that if I got bad grades, dropped out,
spent too much time on poems, the sky would come
crashing down.
Bad news blares from every stamen, every mouth, every
passing car and leaf blower. I am coated in dust. It has
been too long since I left this spot. How do trees do it?
Do they too grow stiff and restless
“When you attack us, you will see our faces. Not our backs, but our faces.” – President Volodymyr Zelensky Beneath a Bougainvillea-laced trellis I read of war and war and war when I am startled by a sound deep and […]
No one is to blame for anything anymore.
Or is it that everyone is to blame for everything?
Maybe the world has gotten too small: so many billions
of us, incomprehensible to ourselves, let alone
one another, crowded together
long before the stamps commemorating peace,
before factories resumed churning out grenades,
some made off with blueprints for conquest,
taped them to the walls of their dreams
I’ve been unkind to the ants swarming
the plates I left unwashed: stamped a
a few dozen to death, left the others
scurrying, confused, and hungry
By where we put out the trash
there is a fragrant orange tree.
On Monday mornings the street
smells of fresh fruit and rotted fruit
I read poems on a bench in unexpected heat,
winter-pale skin growing pink, then red,
like a sunset spreading across me.
Suppose I grant you the premise of your question.
Should I gather up my limbs at once
and build something immortal with them?
What could I construct to outlast
the drowsy calm of this moment?