—after Philip Larkin TO BRING THE HORSE HOME Is all I’ve wanted past wanting since I was six and delirious with fever, an infinitive forged from...
not an elegy for Mike Brown I am sick of writing this poem but bring the boy. his new name his same old body. ordinary, black dead thing. bring him & we will mourn until we forget what we are mourning & isn’t that what being black is about? not...
—in the wake of another tragedy: praying for France THOUGHTS OF A SOLITARY FARMHOUSE And not to feel bad about dying. Not to take it so...
PURSUIT —for Arctic Explorer Donald B. MacMillan...
THE WOVEN MESSAGE come hide near me I’ll count however long I need to count the insects in the web— I like the still living ones—that beat of wing I hear or the still turned-on ignition of the firefly—I see one’s underbelly blink on and...