I like to read the dead.

Part of a whole lost era campaign.

The bridge is up.

A portrait of you from what you aren’t saying.

On my sleeve. The verb to be.

I’m plucky but thankful.

Death and the imagination equals life itself.

Letters from an old bottle,
junk in space.

A book or a boat?

The black ribbons of a spring day
might sound mawkish

but I like to read under a pale blue sky
animated and deepening.

I like to read the dead.

There’s so and so going by
everyone, outside

everyone

the words scroll onto air.

Synecdoche: act of receiving from another.

Metonymy: change of name.

Who hasn’t found themselves
praying in an awkward room.

She said but what of their sad work
by the river’s edge

sad way of working the moth paper light

trellis of dented garbage cans
and debris at dawn.