The calculus of heaven / is y approaching infinity, / and when you graph it / it rises in a line

I’m not as old as the painters would have it / I’m ageless in this age of monsters.

Not because he’s overweight, although he is. Nor because of the disgust he would feel stepping into the elevator…

Monster’s skin is replaced / it’s not the confusing shade of brownish red that says he could be anything / but white.

Fresh fallen snow: A photograph of a painting is what you / show me, it glitters strangely and is obscured / by thumbs

anti-greta stands in grim resignation. she buries her metal straw and reusable tote with her own hands, shoveling fistfuls of dirt over the metal and canvas until they have sunk back to the earth.

From my belly I spit little fires— / they are sweet & hurt & dusty. / Each slippery flame is work / to keep warm.

...God, I hate November / All the hope I had hoped / Against hope for Jordan.

About 600 miles south of the North Pole stands the world's northernmost statue of Lenin. The face is like a mask, with a guarded but threatening expression.

I wrote my first will in the womb; / a firstborn falsely preceded by / three siblings.

Crossing your legs at the / knees is a way. Walking with your feet / in line is a way. Learning to breathe / one lung at a time is a way.

Homes would switch without warning. Keys stopped working. That’s what I yelled, banging on the door, “My key doesn’t work!” before finding the concrete planter and hefting it through the sidelight

swallowing a glass piano / if I move / it will shatter into pieces

It matters / what u put inside ur body / like it matters, / matter of fact, / what’s in our air

Girls working at counters often daydream. / You clutch a tree-printed sweater, finger / seams like lines of rough hands

I ring,
like /        / y’all
hear that / ​       / right?

in the summers when / the forests fall, and artemis wakes to dust and dirt / she finds a second home amidst the undergrowth.

Diogenes begs for alms from a statue / to pick up the practice of being refused.

we were hemming unending sheets for armless angels a craving for sand filled our bellies we slobbered as we talked in our sleep

it began with the woman in the grocery store / filled with white shoppers and brown workers / and me with a face that makes the real americans ask