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How welcome my birth must have been to the raw soldier.

My desire to be in sync with him had nearly been my undoing.

This body is all I have, I say. Some days it is still not enough.

In a future we believe in, these plants will all be ghosts.

We hung our posters at the drugstore, at the grocery, at city hall. I tacked up a 1970s Earth Day poster from my mother’s classroom. We tie-dyed shirts, and I bought everyone a plastic visor to paint.

I stood among them as if in a brothel and inhaled the wind.

I will rehearse loss until I feel it coming. Until it’s real.

There is a pure fear, in waking somewhere you have not lain down. She runs until her blisters bleed. Then, she runs some more.

We went. We did. We went to Dead Horse but couldn’t stay.

I seek these ghosts because they allow me to return home outside of time.

I am determined to praise my particular world, so I must praise you.

I can remove my hand the second it becomes too much for me.

Maybe he was preparing for a disaster that would never happen.

Hurricane Ian was bearing down on us. Jack wanted to stay and ride it out. I was passed out on the floor, the TV on, when Ian made landfall.

I only divine the cat’s location when I hear its small cough.

It’s been a rainy, relatively windless fall, the aspen leaves clinging.

Because grass sprouts from the stump’s rings like tiny soldiers.

Now I’m no longer the buzzards glooming over the mango tree.

When I wasn’t teaching social studies, I basically lived on my balcony.

It was a Hmong villager who roped you with dogs on the chase.

Men veer into the earth and don’t come out. Silent choirs of canaries roost in a forest of chimneys.

These are notes that please the great heart of man.

Here was rot and immemorial night. And death. Death above all.

I could go in for some pie why the hell not, there’s so little time.

We could have everything and still be hurt.

You couldn’t believe what the rhododendrons do around here.

Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter dreams.