A fallen tree became our table,
and setting water bottles down,
like building houses out of cards,
we breathed in the quiet air around us,
listening for the sound.
I am at the fringe of a dream.
Who got to tell us how things are or should be?
“The rot of the Mesozoic
keeps our lights alive”
On stolen soil,
There is nothing
I capsize every night, anchorless and gasping . . .
Why must I
for forbidden fruit?
The store is closed when I
from the window
I imagine better homes.