I see scattered rivers and think I might belong here to stay.
The Elasticity of the Sonnet in Diane Seuss’s frank: sonnets
She walks, a bit lost, between the shores
If you feed an animal what it will eat
sometimes you kill it.
Two votive plaques
along the windowsill
ants stream in
I text my friend the photos of this iced creature curling in on itself, a wick burnt beyond its usefulness
I am not always hypervigilant
about killing bugs when they tangle
in my locs.
Blank cartridges, useful in races, threats, theater
and reenactments–all heat lightning, no rain.
Everyone’s talking about the dead owls