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

I’m not alone in my fear I’ll end up like my ex, / who fears his next wife will leave him, and she does.

The smell of rain. / Or, then again, // the smell of an azalea. / Or the sea.

She folds a piece of typing paper / into a house. Let’s live here, she says