or Fight The Stupids
I own books composted with English
words I'm unfamiliar with, but mine
or were.
I don't remember
the faces of old lovers, or
gifts of fetal photographs
the notes tell Autumn we've forgotten
deception; the news spoke of heat instead of trust,
We are lucky—arriving home late to unfurl
a map of storms that arrive without warning, letting go
before the fingers know how to.
