( some from 2022, it is still yesterday

GAP SONGS

when homesick
I seashell
my son’s weight
in softspots

~

IN THE BALLOONING EMPTINESS OF KNOWING THAT MOUTHS ARE SHAPES THAT DIED

an animal 
not sold 
on god
angels near 

its dinner

of mock 
and make
and make

~

HOW TO LIVE IN LAST OHIO

Keep getting the same sore throat.

Hit puberty
in a cornfield
while listening
for dogs.

Give 
for free
your father’s 
tadpole 

to a thief in a shrinking city. Take

no joy.

~

APARTURES

God is at every funeral
disguised
as god
the ghost

death couldn’t
keep

~

APARTURES

Two birds with one deer.

Touch is touch
teaching touch
the backstroke.

The nude
think snow
can die.

~

THE DIAGNOSIS

We walk to the car. Sometimes the car is different. If I look closely, I can see that I’ve put my son under my shirt. A video of a mother’s finger getting shut in a car door gives me a toothache. Searching lessens the find. There aren’t many pictures of us with our mouths open. There are things we can to do make it look like we don’t go outside. Choice is a medicine. You can eat or you can write, but you can’t do either. Clearly, thunderstorm, jesus had such a short memory that god became necessary. All babies in my dream, dream.

~

APARTURES

Time gives itself a childhood.

Alien, animal, beast, breast.
God loves 
a beginning.

Painkilllers don’t age.

~

UNTITLED

no matter that ghostpack
of cigarettes
under baby brother’s
pillow-

He breaks his hand in a poem