Poetry

People act
as if they are not the soil beneath them

a man walks
with his head in his phone

he is holding dirt
he is happy, anonymous, well-fed…

The dream saw you before you woke
the creek
the clear creek, leaving the lake
where it was possible
to see a temperature
where your dream had run in desperation
your sleep was maudlin
you casted one incipient belief
after another
splashing through Canada…

He is beautiful like the
frozen buildings, long
icicles adorning elbows
in a crystal wingspan. A
hero’s pinions. He, however,
will not linger until the end
of winter, a living cenotaph
for the man who died
in the part accident. After
ten minutes, they will come
with chisels and break him off…