Now that it’s ready
to storm—people squirm under
the weight of gray clouds.
Now that it’s ready
to storm—people squirm under
the weight of gray clouds.
A box of pencils,
long and sharp—none with
any eraser left.
Pollen coats car hoods
like ash—as if—unseen, unheard—
some volcano blew.
Green knots at the ends
of bare branches waiting for
the sun to relax.
I spend too much time
rereading what I’ve written
to watch it vanish.
Without eyes, I might
cling to how near or far
these morning birds sing.
Purple ink dries green
on a black pen—just like
Japanese beetles.
Does it take a night
without stars to keep them home
loving each other?
Workers down the street
excavated enough mud to
tunnel out of here.
Amid traffic noise—
his shouted words lost—his hands
thrashing like tied birds.