Two ladies
Working at the gas station
Are looking out the window
Ooh gurl!
He’s here!
No hat today?
The other lady
He happens to drive a donut truck
They are. Just. Mesmerized.
O, the conversation.
I have to say something
Yeah—I see why.
They say right?!
I see beautiful when I see it.
He comes in to pay for his purchase
But there’s already fuel
For everyone’s tank.
Beauty is beauty.
It doesn’t need mean it’s for me.
i’m fascinated by celestial movement
that i can know at 10:47 on august 2, 2027
the moon will blot out the sun in spain
for 4 minutes and 39 seconds
from the moment you read this word
we can know exactly how much time
will pass before a crowd of millions
gasps at an event specific to this planet
and we’ll know at 10:52 they’ll pack up
to head home to their jobs and pets
and netflix originals and cereal and traffic
jams, profundity ebbing in their chests
we know the time of the last eclipse that i
could possibly see, but not where i’ll be
…which This
is is
where the
I edge
live/ Here
love I
my stay
life Even
but a
can’t book
move bar-
in- ing
ward my
from name
here can’t
Jobs sway
change me
I from
change my
or si-
stay lent
the digs
same My
but wife
on is
the a-
edge way
I at
remain work
In My
my dog
house a-
doors sleep
o- on
pen stairs
win- dis-
dows charged
o- from
pen group
cars I
drive sit
by with
their words
sounds –ropes
of pull-
speed ing
last- me
ing from
sec- the
onds edge
in Flail-
the ing
air Fail-
dar- ing
ing lines
me limp
to Sav-
leave ing
my my
con- soul
fines de-
But mands
I so
stay man-
They y
leave hands
Overheard American Sentences #1
CoffeeTree Books, Spring 2026
I wonder what will be left when everyone gets everything they want.
Sweet and tender
in the dark, my
pink body thin
and thinner.
The wild noise
of my bones,
my yellow hair
by candlelight.
I am the youngest
one, I am the
first season
of the year.
I am not from
around here.
Call me by
my other name
and let me move
your blood.
I’m not trying
to make you
brittle- I’m just
so lonely,
like this,
Half the time
in my
terracotta house.
Half the time in
My bunker
underground.
What would
happen if
the world
Were to end
right now?
For you,
I’m not so sure.
As for me,
I think I might
just keep on
growing.
I like to pause & look up at the
pine trees, wary of the roots that
dance beneath my feet
The sound of the pines as they
make music with the wind cradles
my soul even if I pause for only
a moment.
Teach me about grief
& I’ll gather your green needles
to twist in my fingers
Teach me how to say rooted
while bending & swaying
What is place
What is time
How do you morn while breathing
new life into pine cones
sharp & strong
There was a long time
I could’ve walked
down the hall
and visited
a third of
my world.
When we
existed together
I understood much
more than I do now.
Now I wake up quiet
to quiet too quiet
with only my
footsteps
to listen
for.
is mostly birdsong and green which
need more syllables than those words
themselves imply. From my porch swing
a hundred hues of green which have
no other name I know, and birds
at the feeder chatter and click
till a shadow and caw whooshes
them from mind into memory.
(An 8×8 which started as a 7×7 poem!)
Every morning
the robin is back.
Same tree.
Same impossible enthusiasm.
I think
she’s my publicist.
Hark, there she is!
The human is still alive!
Still draping herself in large ribbons!
The message remains consistent.
A worm!
A cloud!
A rat!
Relentless, unfettered praise.
Hark!
We are alive!
She doesn’t confuse
attention with devotion.
She sings.
The wind moves through.
A siren creeps in and out.
A train rattles past.
Someone leaves.
Someone stays.
A plane careens overhead.
Her song continues.
Flags.
Battles.
Promises.
The American Robin
sings before and after
being named American,
before and after
being named Robin.
This morning
she arrived before sunrise.
By the time I opened the window
she was already cheering.
For this.
This body.
This day.
This ridiculous life.
I waved.
She paused
and kept singing.
my best poems
thrive in my depression
as if creativity only blossoms in sadness
as if beauty can only be found in darkness
as if light can only shine in decay
and I guess that’s why
rainbows come after clouds sob
and I guess that’s why
praise is given after death claims an artist
long gone before their flowers are given
much like
how coping hurts before you heal
an offbeaten path to recovery
much like
how my poetry, often written in negativity
is reborn in essence of hope
