Like scarves that have run and bled all down the beach, rows of them under the violent sun where the dog noses its way
When the dead speak to me, I ask them to be patient while I mark time in the color guard, legs starched-stiff as my
for Ash and Reid O Breath, hold us in this moment— in the whirr and grind of this old truck’s gears, her straight-six growl,
Even now, looking at the brick courtyard lit by the late morning sun, I summon feelings of grief. It is tiring, to always carry