Sometimes I think I never really lived here – *poet*

You didn’t – Tongo Eisen-Martin


the sun burns loudest

when it’s now


happiest hour



illuming caravans, shopping

carts, baby doll-dented heads,


a whiskey-stained wedding album,

golden, fossilized baby shoes grasping a tie


to the edge of humanity,

the 8th marker at Ocean Beach,


to watch the last dinosaurs

and what a crow carries under


its wings, secrets

it has on the wind—


an ashen woman, quiescent,

a carton of Lucerne milk


toasting in the already cruel

elements, a spoiling


a raised glass—their newest

Dogpatch beer


gardens and sand

do not answer to chronology