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Maybe Nothing At All A child spat out the back of a Jeep Cherokee pacifer from a steel mouth bed of blood and glass an aftermath, maybe a father bending down cigarette lighter depressed or telling a son a joke, or to shut up, a drunk blacked out blown tire, run light maybe nothing at all.


II. The Graves We Dig Pampas grass— the hill’s green, gold tent. Wind visible in soft feathers. Lost time takes shape on decayed headstones, day takes the tree’s shadows. Dead straw, dead field after seven years I return home. Though I have not committed the crimes of the dead aren’t I the same as any of these words carved in stone— life strung together as a name?


Grave Digger I’ve driven home from Atlanta to find my black lab licking its lips glazed in mice blood. Feeding them to the pythons would have accomplished something— the lab already fat enough for winter. Now the snakes are hungry, the mice gone. I pick fur from cold hardwood, fill small boxes with crushed carcasses. Blood’s iron perfumes this mess. Outside, I dig a grave for the sky buried in the moon’s ivory width.



The Graves We Dig