Poems

If this were a fable of insomnia, the cloth
couch on fire would be mine—
pea green—and the dead

fox, its right foot raised,
would be a waifish
Texan coyote . . .

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The scent of the jasmine comes in heavy
as a past life. Like the one you left

after three and a half years in Houston. You’ve cracked
the window now so you can sleep
with a breeze . . .

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