On average, odd years have been
the best for me.
I’m at a point where everyone I
meet looks like a version
of someone I already know.
Without fail, fall makes me
nostalgic for things I’ve never experienced.
The sky is molting. I don’t
know
if this is global warming or if
the atmosphere is reconfiguring
itself to accommodate all the
new bright suffering.
I am struck by an overwhelming
need to go to Iceland.
Despite all awful variables, we
are still full of ideas
as possible as unsexed fruit.
I was terribly sorry to be the
one to explain to the first graders
the connection between the
sunset and pollution.
On Venus you and I are not even
a year old.
Then there were two skies.
The one we fly through and the
one
we bury ourselves in.
I appreciate my wide beveled
spatula which fulfills
the moment I realized I would
grow up and own such things.
I am glad I do not yet want
sexy bathroom accessories.
Such things.
In the story we were together
every time.
On his wedding day, the stone
in his chest
not fully melted but enough.
Sometimes I feel like there are
birds flying out of me.
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