Sunlight and tree limbs sway across the back fence, An Indonesian shadow play. The villain is my aloe vera In the large clay pot.
We pull cords across the lumps of our mattress and strap it—encased in plastic—to the roof of our car. Neither of us could push
Would infant-racket, sun-glare, angry sky build or bury a life? We met late in the day, a hundred seconds to midnight on the doomsday
shaking cottonwoods, this whisper and shimmer of leaves? Is it tonight’s full moon, the quicksilver of clouds, the sky’s star-thick seas? By day, I