Poem for Julie Carr

The hunt’s on in
the night book &
I try to flick it
off like a reading lamp

but your poems don’t
flick off so good, Julie Carr.

It’s leaching like
salt in the truck
bed, a bridge’s got
the wobble—
what if we imagine
the worst to
harvest it up & try
to keep the violences
off the porch?

What’s standing here with us
breathing its breath breathing
its breath here alive in waiting
for what we aren’t human enough
to endure.

Poem for A.C.

Wish I didn’t feel out how
desire clocks the grid.

Mosquito nets around the poster
bed, so who’s in here?

I broke a rule when I answered
my phone in class & it was you.

A bag of apples. What kind of
swimming is available?

It’s you and a bunch of undergrads
badmouthing the motherfucker you
may as well know I am.

Keats breathing onto
a letter re-reading him.

A brother off like a
stunned border dog,
half happy unsafe out alone.

You know the moon may as well fold.