Three Poems

My Ears Aren’t Right

When bodies floated up out of their graves after

the hurricane,
I had no TV to watch.
But too much rain
can translate anything to unspeakable.
First it’s awful,
a downpour, my yard out there, the last
worst place for insects that can’t
burrow deep, even secret ones
they haven’t yet pinned to a lab board, haven’t
crowned with little white slips to say so.

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