Written for snow, slippery
sidewalks, storefront windows
(the geometric sun in fog)–
memories were what they
were for. Manuals deep
in hidden drawers.
To say they were for perspective–
no, the fear, frozen ground
thawing. What needs forgotten.
(originally published in Thirteen Myna Birds, Fall 2020)
Jogging in shorts at forty-four
degrees not the angle geometry
is the vice of bridges and edges
and bent knees but not me I am
alive for a little while until tires
deflate which could be a minute
or twenty-fifty depending on the
status of the singularity at my end
(originally published in talking about strawberries all the time, Fall 2020)
As if you could find exactly
the base of a triangle–
one long, unsure line.
I am looking for an exit
sign pointing, pointing, pointing.
Outside that red door
wilts confused leaves.
You say there’s a way
to quantify this? That
equations explain everything?
It’s 30 degrees today,
90 yesterday.
What’s autumn’s angle?
A 180-degree spin.
Math. I don’t trust it.
How Catholic school
assured me the trinity
would save me.
I’ll learn whatever
to warm myself.
(originally published in petrichor, Spring 2018)
we walked in the shadows
of our shadows to blend
with other shadows
this rectangular geometry
took dominion
over winter
plunked lilies
into the lakes
we never knew existed
(originally published in November Bees, Summer 2016)
