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80 pages, Hardcover
Published October 22, 2024
I want my life
to be a poem. I want my life to be
a poem. The future of a poem is mystery.
Writing toward uncertainty, I locate beauty.
In this process I harvest joy.
Brushed by wind into the night, you lift a stone.
You find me as the creature that I am,
staring up at you.
“Her grave is contracted for fifty years, another thing I learn—where our bodies lie are temporary exhibits.” (All my friends who loved trees are dead)
“People like me more when I’m silly / but I’ve forgotten how to make jokes. / all I’m left with is seriousness.” (We do not have to touch everything we love)
“Pleasure is not the same as joy, I’m told. / But if pleasure is all one can afford?” (In the age of goodbyes I)
“If the only world is a hell with my siblings, I thought, I should feel lucky to call this world home.” (Gala)
“Brushed by wind into the night, you lift a stone. / You find me as the creature that I am, / staring up at you.” (Next Lives)