In my world, the busts of poets
are 5,000 foot tall and chiseled into
the side of a mountain in the Black Hills.
Poets are more amenable to proud Lakota
than are the faces of dead presidents
who never gave a damn about sacred lands.

He wears only sweatpants
beneath that black cloak,
relaxed in the knowledge
that he need not hurry,
that we’re going nowhere.

I found them on the bathroom floor
after my cousin and her boyfriend
left for Ithaca. They were green
with gold stripes and they weren’t
mine.

it’s like a raspberry tart that
fell.
mom should bake more & amma used to make milk cakes & i miss those.

They grilled the thief for half a day,
and now the job’s completely done.