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Here I am, king of the gods, making a fool of myself just to get under your gown.

I was once a rider of mastodons, a waitress showing skin.

She does not know within a decade she will unload a slug into her mouth.

The men here don’t know where to place me, call me exotic grail.

When I’m reading him I feel myself come closer to you than usual.

My head was muffled in velvet, my body exposed in an old slip.

No one asked that, changed as he was, he do more than survive.

If it were fiction, calling the place Newtown would be too much.

“Refuge,” Nina said, tilting her head back; it was a word she learned.

my baba sits in a midwest garage with the hood propped open.

The dead man’s suit coat
 is a good fit through the shoulders.

The legendary author Robert Stone, in the words of his friends.

If angels were made of music, surely they would vanish.

I sobbed even through hymns sung too gently to lend me cover

Descent jumps and jostles, nausea drops me back to the floodplain.

Her previous existence seemed unreal, now, a faint rumor.

She looks in the mirror above the sink, and her image makes eye contact.

He didn’t fall in line with our well-established porn-shop hierarchy.

The rings of Saturn flash their nothing yellows, nothing blues beautiful.

Nothing was permanent, no friend I made, no math test I took.

When one of the Baxters yelled, “Hey, Turd,” we all turned our heads.

Let’s span a time with each other. The mutual will give us pleasure.

Annette. Such a little bit of a person. Emma couldn’t get over it.

I have wasted your childhood, photographed you too much.

Brassy bullets fell against the floral comforter like little candies.

My students are in rows, alive—day-picked apples cut by teeth.

I was always being left behind in the mud, a bandage around my eyes.

Maybe older Natives have more trauma than younger ones.

Tomorrow I’ll be ratted out about the hunting, but I knew it’d be worth it.