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.