SPACE BETWEEN

the poem is
a pause from the active,
a moment to take

inventory, rearrange, try
to explain the entropy
that masquerades as life's
momentum. the poem is

a slow place,
a space between
cities like a plane
stretched out in
the sky, passing by.

WHAT HAPPENS TO US

lives are lived by someone
on the path to becoming
no one. and yet this is
not evidence of nothingness

any more than the snake's
leftover skin is meant to
suggest he never was.

we all leave
behind used up
stuff; we're not from nothing
to nothing, but from dust
to dust.

GET USED TO IT

so this is the summer
of people dropping dead.

some are given months,
only make it a week.
others wither and never
come back from what
seemed a good night's

sleep. hearts
blow up,
and tumors
grow all over
and people

disappear.
where

the fuck
did they go?