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Wasteland: on the California Wildfires
Green spring grass on
the hills had cured
by June and by July
2020
Elegy for the Disappeared
Though no word called me, I looked again.
Each wave of supposition hammered against the black wall.
Sometimes meaning, like an expiration date, is blurred.
2020
From “Mojave Ghost” [In the city, a weather of zeros-and-ones]
In the city, a weather of zeros-and-ones
cascades through rising static, while here
in this xeric topography, we fold ourselves
into the circumstance of desert foothills
chewed away by leprosies, toothed winds, and
sudden rains. Will you let me
approach you? Bend forward
2024