You said dusk was a type of field—a place where you grew up razed for the sake
of the place you grew up.
A broken photobooth, shotglasses, footprints from a dog on the underside of an umbrella. Most kitchens
are worth destroying. I removed every single horse from every elegy ever written
and on the page they grew more honest, more sincere. But should we omit for the sake of becoming more earnest?
Common sense shadows of itself; the moon pulls us closer to random passer-bys.
Soon enough, a stranger becomes a fingerprint, a fingerprint becomes its own pre-history.
What People Do
Each road in Texas all stormed up. Even the cows don’t look real,
but road props make this world
feel just a touch bluer. Eager for the birds to disappear
from every poem in the world, but I realize that even in negation there is an existence
worth forgetting. It’s been a week in another world, with enough subtext
to crowd out the initial meaning of our words.
Thankfulness like a boarded-up gas station, the hotel flooded with volumes of space,
our notion of space both unbelievable and instantly recognizable.
Where You Might Have Stayed Forever
The ferns, alive and as lucky
or luckier than us remain here
long enough for the time being.
We stop and in our stopping, we imagine
forgiveness as a world we might one day
inhabit. There’s a lake there that bends back
around your eye and rewrites each
careless memory into a narrative
void of sentences and void of strangeness:
an image at times can be nothing more than itself.