The chrome-colored clouds / pushed the heat down, held in the car fumes, / the smell of the asphalt. Out on the patio, / I was ready for work

There is something about traveling home that stops the blood. / My womb becomes a howling dog warning me of danger.

Here, there, the way silence / tows you below the waterline / and though you are alone / you’re not sure where her name / is floating on the surface / or what’s left

She hasn’t taken off her swimsuit all summer. She is two hands / across her middle. I know that from throwing her: one foot / on my thigh, the other in my palm. Up, over, splash.

Among students, I drink the same / coffee I drank at home an hour / ago—which is not some philosophical metaphor.

If I could go back, / I would have clutched my tongue, / not let it pirouette into / the soft, dim spotlight of / your living room

Once I entered into a symbiotic relationship with a praying mantis, wings folded / at our altar of Queen Anne’s lace. There is wine on the table—father, please don’t / let the calf bleed on me.

Sometimes what you need is a road / house, blast of laughter and warm air pouring / out the door, where the waitresses know / your name but the customers don’t

Here is the last forest that has never / heard the crisp snap of a dollar / or a siren louder than a crow. / Here the wind does not honor / the borders of a deed.

This dirt still mimics sweat / lies down alongside, unsure / your lips would quiet it / though the finger that is familiar / probably is yours –could be enough