Death, and we are the imagined.
We are the immigrants.

We’re sun miles of lives
that become muscle memory at the end.

Telling the tired pope something
that makes you tired to tell. (No thanks.)

The Real is like thousands of theme parks now.
It takes so much money just to replace yourself.

I just want to sit at the desk of the unnoticed
and enjoy tree shadows running my life.

The grass alone is a gorgeous radio, mostly.
Sleepiness. The smoke somethings something.

The stores unconscious at night are holding you.
Eyes too are gyrations.

Birds, miracle us out of the alphabet
we charred again this year.