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If every present
is possible, how can we have eyes to see?

i was a wild thing down by the river, quiet like wild things are.

Elsewhere, perhaps here too, regimes stagger, a congress ends.

Michael McGriff

Through the dark, we say, through the dark: but do we ever really know?

He says to his boots, “Well, suppose we went for fish.”

Such longings: Errant. Verdant. To have a good time. And dream.

I’ve got other plans. And they don’t center on ringnecks.

You’ve trained me well in the art of intimate distance. It’s not been easy.

He was caught. Of course he was caught. He was always caught.

A summer without passion, our selves pulled together like the leaves.

You said cilím-xayqin, the very whites of my eyes you pluck out.

Unwall the summer in blue threading, gift of someone who loved me.

Everything white is a white spider. The spider spins regardless of color.

I will have to remember the man’s hooded eyes as he watches.

Tonight’s moon has dropped its shawl. I’m in the yard again, waiting.

It’s wrong to say the lightning is pink is nothing other than to say it’s not.

His eyes, dark brown and unwavering as he delivered the details.

The everlasting shines through in the threshold between worlds.

Before sunrise I counted nine meteors scratching the heavens.

With my lime-green nitrile gloves I carried him around to the others.

I want something warm that won’t feel shame lying over me.

We spit out the black seeds, bits of night glistening on the grass.

It’s been months, and the fields are good for nothing but night talks.

I want everything to mean. To have worth and weight. But it doesn’t.

Navigating the trailer park at night felt like a raid on a strange village.

If I had known I would have saved the abacus from the fire.

Take some cherry tomatoes, I say when the moon rises over the pine.

I continue composing my love letter, hoping to love her more.