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If he was going to pick me up, the least he could do was look at me.

Some days are stretched so taut it feels like changing might break us. We feed the baby bitter melon, flower pepper, bloodroot beet. The first snow comes in January, fresh gauze over an old wound.

The grass is defiant, wild, and reluctant to take any shape.

I walk across the fields with only a few young cows for company.

Ten years ago, when I was in college, my father divorced my mother and said he wanted me to become responsible for her. That is why I fled to Italy.

Anchored off Biscayne Bay my father’s wooden skiff swings easy.

I want these things to have another life, like the old garden behind our house.

We wondered at their habits and gave them little poems for names.

I’d wager a cicada is fond of a high note on a synthesizer.

Just sugar cubes and a crop for you. Salt licks to smart the tongue.

Your jumps are numbered. It is better to be a bird without altitude.

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

Teams spend days surveying the damage and label me a mess.

“Why do we always fight,” he finally said, his voice quiet, resigned.

Here is the fat guy whose Chihuahua gnawed through his stomach.

Like steps of passing ghosts, the leaves break from the trees.

There’s no way to escape a storm at sea; it hits you, and you can’t hit back.

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

That what I call my Self is asleep, and has dreamed up these lilacs.

Einstein postulated that space and time sit neatly on the same fabric

She’s not the same, her body more naked in its aging, its disorder.

Mostly, though, you could turn them in your hand, hold them to your nose.

Two animals, doe-eyed, slick across the road into the femur of the night.

If party isn’t what we set out to do then you should go home.

Some asshole on a joyride in the outback runs her down, the emu.

Once upon a time, a couple wandered in a glass forest, hand in hand.

Is it that he is too tired or too afraid to blink into the oil of his own machine?

What if it does choose, the egg, I mean, her favorite spermatozoon.

I sometimes have to laugh because even now, as a middle-aged man.

The birds have all flown to Mars for water and Crisco and red.