It’s starts in utero, painted wood carvings thick as a
finger, gift
wrapped in nostalgia.

Made a list.
A record.
The dishes she ate.
Monuments visited.
In Paris.

Tempting death with every cobblestoned step
his face was a collection of broken records

There’s more waste than we use for the things we ordinarily use waste for, such as piling it on barges and sending them out to sea, tucking it under the surface like a layer of insulation . . .

there are some lives
lived poolside
 
and others that
mostly consist of
a bent back in a field –

All summer automatic exits remain
open, and no one leaves or boards.

You are pleased to see me
in my gothic T-shirt –
those bats, you say, have been your friends.

yes of course/ it was idyllic, reclining (pint of/ cider in hand) poolside in the harvesting/ sunlight

when confronted with vast, endlessness of the ocean
who wouldn’t go mad?