Three poems

the future is a monotonous instrument (april 1, 2020)

faith is a television

a stretched truth

they say, the planet is healing

I want to believe in distance

one day things will be

just a short commute again

I want a sandwich

a compost bin for our faults

the future is a clock

a duplicating mess

(a mistake)

ashtray on the windowsill

now we must protect

our outsides

latex gloves pile up

in the gutters

now is as good at time

as any to become

vegetarian

the future is a promise

of ruins

we keep going anyway

pressing apples and senators

we keep realizing

nothing we’ve built

is real

we love nothing

that doesn’t exist yet

Desolate, I think is the best word.

I learned to be alone there,

and to be comfortable

in that aloneness.

I learned how to look

closely at environments

(physically and culturally)

There can be a lot of depth

to a seeming flat, deserted

landscape if you dig in

to the stiff, dry earth of it.

I believe the same can

of a person as the place

they inhabit.

More Agreement than Promise

To know someone inside

of every season

before saying “I love you”

in bed.

To eat the bruised peach,

hug the pit between

my molars, pucker

into the leathery skin.

To skip the petty banter

and shoot straight

for the throat, the parsley

(after)taste and sweat.

To thank the fawn.

To tumble without apology.