Poems
Many, Many Tickled Parsons
Ramified. So speechlessly ramified. I owe it to the sun-
dry real to top off my I with cold feet; here they are
doing other work. On the level of the consonant I
feed into the dew. Let this all be memorandum, full stop,
silly habit. An arbitrage wipes my name away
from the base point. I smother these periods for you.
A Brand of Quietism We Can All Hang Our Heads On
Idea: ownership is a refrigerator
with designs on my selfhood. Yours
too. I can’t explain it, I just know
that in English, there is a difference
between “this poem has an argument”
and “this poem is having an argument”
and the ghost puppet judge
is waiting just around the corner
to decide which formulation
obtains in this case.