Poetry

I am not us yet but / soon there will be no place left to go

our analogy our utterance / like a core of blood / or whatever

Driving back, it was so dark / it was like driving into death — / that feeling that I might dissolve

We didn’t know how much we would miss us

Birds don’t bury their dead in feathers of clouds. Dead birds don’t drop from the sky.

You realize this isn’t a river—a wet parking lot with faded lines goes under a / building & some long grass like reeds where the walls meet.

utterly lifelike threads! so such! utterly! utterly!

The nightmare is my brother being printed, entering the printer, coming out printed / On a photo that shows his hands facing towards us / As if he were banging on a window, if the paper were a window.

And if not lynx by land or lake or aching air / Who is it talking to me here

when i was little i said i wanted to grow up to be a cowboy and they told me i can’t / i’m not american