One place, or two, to start: beauty and use.
From the blood of these knuckles
a red tree grows.
She shouldn’t have written
A correction note to a mysterious entity:
With what’s left of our unremarkable lives
we walk in what’s left of the world’s coastal prairie.
First and last, we grapple a galaxy
Let us push out this ship’s dark
perfection of yew.
Nightjars once called us later & later.
Because we missed the Raphaels the first time
A man told me I should split
my poem in two