When it snows in a place it’s not supposed to snow

it rains in a place it’s not supposed to rain

I started to hurt in a place I’m not supposed to hurt

I held my body in a place I’m not supposed to hold my body

too often I forget what makes a blood moon bloody

that we are recipes cooking until we taste good

the way my grandmother keeps her recipes in a plastic box

the way they are pieces of fraying brown paper

always only yet to be stained

remember when people rented houses in that thin band

of America where an eclipse promised darkness

totally they said it felt otherworldly

the way that makes me search for what’s worldly:

filling a bathtub at the Slurpee machine

the way a fork in the road is a decision

remembering that a mountain is made

when it snows in a place it’s not supposed to snow

In no time all this time has passed

Everything is horrible and perfect and difficult to describe

People are touching the art in museums now

No one is minding the gap

They killed a mountain lion for being a mountain lion

The clouds are changing without being watched

The questions they’re asking me are getting longer

and harder to answer

The things I’m feeling are getting bigger

and harder to hold in my pockets

They’re spilling out and falling to the floor

People are reminding me that it’s litter

A song that I love starts with the lyric

The road is longer than it is hard

It is one of these things that keeps

falling out of my pockets

Evading me like a minnow

but it’s a minnow

so I still want to see what it

would feel like if I held

it in my hands

The road is longer than it is hard

Maybe I hurt only

for what has been paved

In the distance

are so many pebbles

that will fit in my pockets

all of them

I think that watermelon radish is a good name for watermelon radishes

because they look like watermelons but taste like radishes. You look like a

person but taste like an animal. I look like a finger painting. I look like

I could use a drink. On the same street that a baby is crying on, construction

work is being done. Someone finds the baby louder than the construction.

Someone else finds the opposite to be true. This means something about you:

the things you find to be louder. To my ears, the baby is louder but I listen

only to the road work. How you can shatter through a sidewalk and get pulp.

There’s a theory that vast networks of tunnels exist underground.

In these tunnels live creatures the likes of which we have never seen before,

nor can imagine but I imagine their eyes to be the color of safety vests.

In 2nd grade we all had to come up with names for a nearby crane, the best

name would be painted onto the crane forever. I won and got to watch

my crane kill a road all year long. From my classroom, I could hear my crane

hard at work. It sounded like a neck snapping. It sounded like a twig breaking.

This meant something to me. This means something about me.