The sheep does not know/
it is alone, that miles away/
there is a lushness to a land/
beyond its vision,
Poetry
Moving Continents (and other poems)
meanwhile, half a year away, the boxes’ future selves—torn and misshapen/
but otherwise intact—sag against a sack truck’s rigid back
We are all touch-me-nots now, exploding at the slightest provocation (and other poems)
I’m a strong swimmer, I have a /
good job, it’s embarrassing to still hope / to be loved.