These are the houses of the poor—
Strange animals ... they live in view...
That woman on the second floor,

That I should originate anything
was intolerable to me,
but I considered it, privately.

The man I loved wanted me in his bed, so I could tell him he was exceptional.

Ruining something felt like a reason to proceed.

New Hampshire: the sound
of fast water in cascades,
a miniscule toad

      It is not consumption of meat,
the great food-chain waste, that makes one ugly.
      Watching apes pelt enemies with dung

My family stands
at its end, stops
storm-thrashed

A tiny blemish where the sun-
glasses touch his cheek. It will fade.
From the corner of each eye, uneven notches

My mother’s been dead for three months.
I don’t know where she is now or how she got there.
I’ve heard all kinds of conjecture, and some
I believe. But firsthand experience comes last.

I understand—the NO ONE CARES billboard
looms over the exit ramp; Nancy has lost her place
in her novel for the umpteenth time; the Lab
has dysplasia.