My father’s hospice bed sits in the middle of the living room / like a shrine. He doesn’t leave the bed anymore
A sparrow is rubbing its beaks against the crenelated ink-stains: inherited / from the hollows of an embattled myth, shrouded in vicious peace.
But I think morality is more or less moored to reality. / (Ality-to-ality, more than -ism to -ism.)
A poem came to me and swore it would do no harm
There turned out to be no fogged streetlamp / anointing us. No tender words / or familiar song to soundtrack this memory
My parents smile as though / politeness in a disaster / is expected of them
Big in everything but heart; / almost endearing for the smile
I tell students don’t write about the beach / or especially the ocean and definitely not / if a moon or sun is involved
Each year, these fires seem to get more relatable /
a few years back two riders died on Wild Wonder / clicking, clicking now above our heads
