More on: Poetry

The season of victory ends with little notice,
like the passing of a neighbor.

What is the feel of a petal opening?

It shouldn’t be so difficult, finding a harm-free way
to love the world, or at least to love those parts of it
that we love.

I lost my lost saints in pieces.

What’s a miracle,
though, but a moment
when the world works
well and unusually?

Learn to shut off that thing in you
that smiles when grace stammers into panic:
the triple axel ends in wipeout

Dead heart, it hangs on a thin blue strap.

& what if you love the fire arrived and the fire escaped

I could bleed flowers.

Am I this crumbling
country?