tropical depression

touch-me-not quivering
in the rain

without knowing the future

monarch butterfly

heat lightning

the meadow’s whisper
of crickets

skinned alive

by a porcupine
sweet birch

gray

fox’s leftover
junco feathers

January

the shrinking circle
of my needs

foggy solstice

the “cosmic” flavor of the cloud
from her vape

more dead children

I go for a walk in rain
that should be snow

At the encampment of the damned,

there’s so much less fornication than at the encampment of the saved.

Christmas morning

all the trees graffitied
with fresh snow

old jawbones

lying at right angles—
my camera is a phone

I dreamed I’d written a book about all my disguises.

When I woke up, it was true.