Homily and Other Poems


Mud miles forward
and stepless river
bank—on this, imagine
the moment the moment turned
into a life
spent waiting for the kitchen
to fill with mice. For company. For you.

In June
the wheat got blue, and you
got drunker still:
on imagining the mudflats, the fields
where sugar burned.

I’ll unscrew a light bulb
just to see how I feel
in the darker. See,
in filament, the day you
pointed to the trees split
in half from the storm. Saw the color
of a fire’s trace then
ran from it.

the radio becomes a friend I forgot
to keep or never quite
forgave. Like the time you found
pills in the junk drawer, tried them
just in case.

It is easy to see
where the flowers used to growl
back at autumn, living. Against
their better judgment. It is easy
to know how this mirrors
a finger trying to chase
its way back to the start of you.

In July the wheat got dead and dying
to see how dogs feel, you
buried your hands in the dirt.
You got hungry, after.
Wondering where we kept the knives.

Anything with Skin

People on couch
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