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

Silence after I call your name this morning / earns another black mark in the roll book.

I wonder what it feels like to die; to feel the rhythm of your body / fall to rest as you watch your final breath dissipate, / to speak only through dreams and the grainy film of memory.

Kneeling amidst / the camellias, roses / culling the self / sown from the cultivated / the disdained / from the highly-regarded / I’m reminded / how circumstance / defines us

I soak my sleeve in water just to foul things up a bit, / Create a small level of misery, to keep the defense / Honest.

The yard looks still. / Winds riffle green-coin / leaves, slim white-preened bark.

Mrs. Norris begins the afterlife in room 3B, the wheels of an empty suitcase skittering behind her. She takes her crossword puzzle to a café and bides her time.

Though it’s familiar this flower / doesn’t recognize the breeze / wriggling out the ground / as that distance without any footsteps

The flowers are everywhere, pungent and bright. / It could be autumn, eighteen-fifty-seven.