I want to ask her / about the long veils of widows. / She’ll just shake her head.

My daughter marches through the forest. She can’t do it herself, so / she uses my legs, my eyes and my fear.

Beyond the all-night diner’s pulse of crows, / rain pushes an empty swing set in song.

The manure did not / have a bad smell he insisted, / context was everything

The text a merciless / lightning Celeste’s been / in a car accident

What is it like to be Kafka now, the way he lives today in the half-light of European history before the Holocaust?

In the not too distant future / I will be old I have / seen it coming

Even Lenin did not hold / such power over his people // as I do with food.

I retrace my steps, barefoot and diligent as a shipwreck