Memorial Day

a red squirrel raging  above the grave

Jupiter and Mars

almost touching  the whippoorwill

fear spiralling  in my hand

This is what happens as soon as I stop walking, my daily habit: I become habitat.

when did the back of my hand  turn strange?

this dream of endless mountains

alone in the forest  her green shawl

a drop of rain for each  newborn leaf

red appendages  born-again maple

the angels didn’t fall  they were pushed

one garlic head’s  green tongue

a face pressed against  the train window