For C. and M.

shipped, we got home somehow, undidour shoelaces. I wanted your storywanted to "dive into the wreck" of a pastwhose way was lit and littered as an avenue.you were hailed Ashton on a darkened street,that boy's name you'd since discarded in effortsto become the woman you were born (burdened)

I shook myself of the salt of submergence, wrungwater from my hair. Am still shaking surprisedwet for the first time in awhile. capacious as theyare poems can hold only so much in their helms.I am here. With and again(st) my new lover, aman, marxist, moved by the march of a state

that must be reminded of miracles. not themarvel of how many mothers can be cagedfrom children so that their skins must slipbetween cracks and find blind ways backbesides babies, but continental miracles:I read a herd of uncrossed bison arecoming to reclaim what was taken.