The plane makes its fluid, plummeting turn, and my window fills with land

That night the wind remade itself

Look past the wild red hair, gripped sticks, and teeth gnashing; past the twin shows of chasing skirts and anger

I pray only to wordplay. Am I wrong to fetishize fluidity? Strength?

My friend in Africa has a cleaning lady. They are both Black. He tidies up a little before she arrives

No, let me tell you that the more we talk, the more I’m convinced I’m right

Can the secret to writing well be as simple as a mathematical equation?

Cash from Hibernia and Terra Nova cancelled what we once knew about shipwrecks, when green water ran on the slanted decks

You couldn’t compete with them or with man, or so we think: extinction’s a mystery we’ll never understand

There also was an obit for Oasis; The aging rockers had fused and perished, faces Picassoed, mop tops mixed