The fruits of my recovery are fresh with sterile seeds I spit them on concrete steps they melt in the sun,

Geologists say that in ten years, Florida’s coastlines will be underwater. Oceanfront properties will drown in the wake of global warming,

jelly, your high-risk dirigible in the bomb-alicious             sky filled with lies, the radio highs that last three minutes tops, the shuck and jiv...

When the text emerges with a mark missing, I kiss it. The error ablates

We come to a clearing, thunderclouds above                   an open field. Expecting rain, we watch                                    instead the grasses browning, streambed slowly...

At church I sit alone, not ready for the faith, luscious around me.

we shouldn't listen for the sound of footsteps.

I catalog each harm I've ever made with my hands

During sex, I often think of a fact I heard, which is that during sex, our impulse toward disgust is diminished.

the body as toyhacked. body as premature goreform, a marionette of blood and fluid and sinewy muck.

Write a poem that binds you and your reader as tightly as the zip ties encircling protestors’ wrists. Use empathy, compassion, complicity.

& coming back, always within 12 feet of me but in water if I approach she goes under

Ends,        if impossible,           unimaginable I can't trust "there there"        mimetic hit-and-run mouth

arrowheads of swallows slicing a wind                 strong enough to set their wings on fire, but not the weather so much as the place itself,

of fear, how easy it eats away at every yellow                                memory

Sometimes she imagines it will happen this way / that it has happened already, and she stands remembering

Beloved, your big plastic sign once a bat signal to all sad girls and their grandfathers in Ironbound

If we lived in a virtual world I would have turned off the war like you turn off the television But we were born into a bitch of a world

Here I’d assumed one poem about jacaranda blossoms underfoot would be my lifetime quota. But that misses the point, since I know I won’t know till I’m well in...

What was your question? My official statement: a single sprouted leaf on...

As in             would gender constructs Be a part         of the deal?

Our ways with water are ancient & invincible:

On the day when my used-to-be countrymen voted to throw their country away,

Point me to it, point me toward tenderness, I kept screaming.

F was once a little Fish           Z was once a piece of Zinc            X was once a great king Xerxes

Three things: I've never been to a funeral, a man is his own prophet in the morning, a door

She would sit there, looking out into the garden, smoking Faros, reading, and drinking glass after glass of Coke. The history of the shapes of reality.

Imitating recorded audio of critically endangered Hawai‘ian Palila birdsong

A visual-poem collage featuring closed-caption sound effects.

A creature made of bush and red dust keeps licking its bones on my doorstep. I hear it wailing and thrashing while my sons sleep.

I gave Alex my ruined piano.

In my mind, I always see them lighted—a finely folded flotilla precise in candelabra, gliding off and glowing amber

i'm worrying about my body while looking in the opposite direction my third-grade teacher calls my parents

In a corner of the room, my body                   ran its factory                               of relations Decisions are not self-explanatory,

When we slid out of the land. When my sleeve caught fire.

I forget I am not pure, how little that part of the story ever matters.

After Father died, I had all the wrong thoughts. Step-Father, a Man of Science, prescribes Spiders:

Nature has her culminating hours Notwithstanding the beauty of a moonlight row,

A coccyx electricity gets me going, arranging my limbs mechanically,

I hear him       when the drum is struck A wolf's skin stretched across the drum

When we return to the field, everything will be over, but right now the sea moves slowly, driven by a large, secret oar.

but my hand is full     of words     like grass     perforating the old lattice

O virgin candle-eater pray for my prayers

Good morning poets of Shenzhen! whoever you are (we’ve no clue).

Pain ricochets around my skull like an aspirin commercial from the sixties, darting up the nasal passages, up behind the frown

In delirium I am scrubbed of notions I carry about myself. Loosened by longing I can leave my selves behind.

we want to be men and women with burning skin with intimate skin shining like a constellation of desperate seas.

to keep the night alive to resemble december