There should be a healthy trade 
in sandbags. Cement should be 
our chief export. Some of it’s made 

As the undisputed delivery system 
for this pathogen, 
you ought to be attending me, 

When it comes to the underworld
and the fragility of guesswork, 
what makes us think the dead 

We knew he was dead
because the dead don’t smile
unless someone works hard

The dolphin was all undulation,
riding its whims and churning 
the ocean, dorsal fin and bottlenose

Thinking to have their fun, those boys 
set a match to the kerosene-soaked 
rabbit 

Only his old dog recognized him when, 
after twenty years,
Odysseus returned to Ithaka.

They take you through my life
one poem at a time,
memory’s beast raging
through the pages

The morning’s horn extended a palmful of 
   sand. I felt a dry sprig on my face, frozen

The past of having makes the present
Bleed and then we’re asked to
Forget it like imagined slights