three feet behind my grin I speak
so seems my teeth is down for it
but it’s a make-do I do.
I DM P. L. Dunbar on some 
whatchu mean “we?” no—
really, though. the rough metric
opening this a lie to make 
done the otherwise I say I is.
yet, the we I been subtweets 
me—“whatchu mean ‘I?’”—
answer’s off my tongue, so: 
authentic, no? where “fine,” “OK,”
“yes” get forged? I split my difference
between here and gone, 
a distance of hard words 
hissed; presence of the harms’
numb climb: I’m fine, I’m fine.

I.              Jupiters

Dayside anger splits
hydrogen and oxygen
apart. Sulks and sighs
push the two toward nightside
where tears become tears again.

II.              Pink Moon

When the creeping phlox 
covers the moon in crepe flush, 
we pray pestilence 
will pass. Spring will yield enough 
crop to eat and later sow.

III.              Do Luna Moths Hurry?

When life is but ten 
days: one turns sage in a week.
Wide eyespots evolve. 
One disdains food—thinks only:
legacy, new moon, lift, glow.

Such as the lobster 
cracking loose 
from its exoskeleton 
after moons of moulting,  
or the viper that squeezes 
out of the skin 
of its remembrance, 
this oracle invites you
to rewild yourself,
to unbox, detox, and de-
clutter your blood. 
Break free from the mold
you made for yourself, 
for the animal 
in you that craves 
routines like sugar,
addicted to the stress 
of your comforts. Sling 
your arm around the waist 
of your discomfort
like it’s a new lover
in these uncharted 
seas and distances 
untraversed. Take
and give glee. 
Summon surprise.
Something whim-
sical this way comes. 
It smells something 
like wishes wrapped 
in wind as you
trod the winding path 
through 
the forests 
of your interior. 
Be warned. You will
bewilder beloveds. 
Hush. Some 
events are better
experienced than 
explained. Take soul.
Your joy is your job;
and yours alone. 
Hire your
self every day. 
Climb into your traveling
shoes knowing that
there, too, will 
be dancing.

The music was turned up too loud for talking
but everybody talked. Someone I barely knew
was drinking wine and had an arm around me.
The liquid in my glass trembled. This was the year
the chokecherry in the yard grew tall enough
to find the wind, a thing like itself, shifting
and invisible, feeling all the leaves and turning them,
like once you turned my coat collar at the door
to make it even, and then I was ready.