Poetry

You tied yarn to my neck, / a leash for the collar.

Loss— / is a hungry word opening up its mouth / wide enough to fit a / gold ring, a child’s / casket.

. . .somewhere between flight & fall a man i’ll eventually resemble once i’ve scrubbed these stars from my eyes breaks down at a kitchen table

The little stuff makes it okay: the hummingbirds and diatoms, the okra, the sleeping pets.

The world doesn’t know a boy is a seashell, he’s found empty when he dies.