I often think about a stranger I helped—if he made / it home or to the hospital, if he still breathes. // It was the hottest summer on record in New York City.
You think now / how the one who's been / buried beneath still yearns to reach out & somehow be- / come the green slurry, that chewed pulp dripping from the pony's maw.
He claims he has a gun / His knowing her name is a gun
All night, each night, the wind / as against the hull of some dropped // ship in a dried up sea / the rain seems to wish to fill.
Mine is the work of dying: / umber, curl, release. / When I come to call, / things fly away, fall away. // Umber, curl, release / into stillness, though nothing is still.
Here’s a trick my mother used / to keep us from running wild at Giant Eagle: / Anything in the produce section, / we could have, so long as we ate it:
I await / to yearn for these barefooted afternoons
I’d seen via Facebook omniscience that he’d graduated, / and fallen in love, and maybe left Kansas, or Nevada. // But then he posts that he misses her. / Even modern medicine can’t stop a pulse from flat-lining.