because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

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goosebumps

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the mornings, like so many things, begin
to grow colder.

there’s a heavy dew brushed across the lilac.
petunias closed up like rigid fists in pink and white and red;
the yellow chrysanthemums already popping.

is it too late to hold out hope
of strawberries? of eggplant?
of cotton blossoms by abandoned roads
that make me sad and alone
and in love all at the same time?

like the past that won’t leave

makes me think of snow and secrets
and, for some inexplicable reason,
cranes.

Williamsburg Road

urban weeds

East of the city,
there are tall pines standing
scant and sentry, as if they knew
this were the road to the ocean.

Amid dandelioned lawns
and asphalt wasteland, gas
is cheaper, repair shops
like mushrooms:

frequent and lightly
unsavory. On Sundays
at the carwash,
every concrete cave

is full, as though
we could siphon
off the week’s sins
with high-suction

hoses; April
has always been
a month for pollen
and repentance.

the last poem

pipeline in flood

at the end,
i don’t know that we are any better off.

the rains have stopped
and everything green
is growing, but we still don’t
have travel plans,
and tomorrow is anyone’s guess.

the squirrels got the first
strawberries, and the red
rose is set
to open its first blooms
any day now.

i got through without owing in taxes.
i can hear church bells
with the front door open.
sometimes you return my texts.
some nights we sleep like lovers.

it is the first of May,
and the river calls.
you told me yesterday: three
cars tumbled in, spilling
crude somewhere

upstream. i don’t know
if it was a result
of the storms, or
our negligence.
it will reach here,

they say, but not when.

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