Poetry

the ogre of gratitude dangling like a chandelier from the rearview mirror asks if
you know how lucky you are, if you’ve meditated on that yet, if your heart

My therapist says a boy with a secret
is easy to control. I wonder how
Steve learned mine, if I told him

in exchange for a public chance at a longer private life, you give them
not your body, but your body’s one error in calculation. the swerve,

This is the year strangers
will say terrible things

about you 

There would have been chaos,
confetti mined from the cliffs
of Michoacán. 

The “Lyric I” tied its sheets together and flew the coop, confessed itself off the balcony.