about his sadness. / About how the moon hung full / that morning, every morning

At sixty-one, I count and recount my remaining summers.

After the final harvest, the forecast / called for freezing temperatures / and the end of this winsome world.

Blind to what tickles the delta of nerves there / you rub a humming with the back of your hand

These gravestones left stranded / warped from sunrises and drift / —they need paint, tides, a hull

Remember that time your dog died and I didn’t tell you for months

I want to be president / she says unprompted. / Her unfinished writing task / lies on the table between us.

When fifteen hours of Wagner’s Ring draws to a close, please Siegfried, don’t take the potion making you forget Brünnhilde.

My father puts the milk carton / on the kitchen table. Declares, She bought it—before.

Doctors cannot tell you when you’re born / how many pitches your arm contains.