5 a.m. (4 a.m. EST)
The island from above Became a hook, gesturing. Filled with sounds, The shape of three fingers.
The family, bereft, Witness to the 5 a.m. The bruise-colored money left. The motorcade on the left.
The slit, a haiku: Focused, deep as a tap. To stab a man, To write a haiku.
Crimson almost-morning: The abettor. Bermuda has One more flower.
Letter to My Future Child
The way you don’t exist is remarkable When I have been hotwired, cobbled from Spongy tubes specifically to birth. At least to bud
Would be preferable, shedding a child Like petals drooping from a center. I apologize profusely to you,
But I am content in my selfishness and My love of this girl I’ve created. Today I watched the bees graze,
The perfect mix of threat and song and binge, And I felt I, too, could bob and maneuver. I guess they reminded me of you:
Your toddling bumble, your absent suckle, Your mere addition to the swarm.