I hit “Buy It Now” over and over on Amazon. Big blue tubs of lightly salted cashews hit the front porch softly, pouched in plastic.
It was good to fill the sinkhole myself after the landscaper/botched the job. Beneath the plant he poised, thirsty/on red clay—divots of emptiness. Ten bags of top soil go in/smelling of the deciduous north, released
Is it the flaw no one had noticed in the inlaid featherwork from which we can infer
Paul Klee once said, “He has found his style, when he cannot do otherwise.” There are poets whose language takes on this kind of inevitability, something Rilke called the “unconcealedness of being,” which shimmers on, star-like and unbidden, shouldering the pain of loss.
in Australia a recent production of Merchant of Venice changed the ending –/ what have I done?
All my registers say hush/A spider pushes each ounce of knowledge against the ground/Her hydraulic soldiers
this is how they work together in her mind/at a proper distance from each other
Hold Me Tight by Jason Schneiderman is a book of five sections that vary in style, tone, and form — it is a book of fables, fantasies, and hilarious futures.
The moon does not/want to be touched. /How do I know? /The goats this morning