City smell: barbeque, humidity, fresh tar on restored roads.
You dream of eating a BLT in front of six children assigned to critique your sandwich-eating abilities.
Swiss chard and carrots in chicken broth; spoon clatter against ceramic bowl sides.
Beer in hand, jet ski revved up, lake and gasoline smell at 2:54 PM, June 26th.
We kissed, inspired by the deer bites on the tomato plants and the gnat clouds drifting by our noses.
Aliens will arrive with one demand: “Give us your green beans or perish!”
The jet ski exploded, engulfing you in flames.
In Philadelphia, my grandfather turned to us in the backseat and yelled, “Welcome to the city of a billion car thieves!”
Spinach leaf in sparrow’s beak, blue sky, grey feathers.
At 9:56 AM, all the eight year olds across America say in unison, “This is the way the world ends.”
Zoom in: lips against lips like a half-smashed kaleidoscope.
Marlon Brando on the TV screen wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap at an angle that says, “Sex.”
Burnt coffee, burnt hair, gasoline fire, your mother crying in the bath.
In Traverse City, you’ll see the bay and let out a sharp breath.
Turn all your salad radishes into radish-flowers.
I was too busy kissing the lifeguard to save you from drowning.
We will invent a new vegetable.
Marlon Brando eating a cheeseburger crouched next to expensive metal gate.
This is the way the world ends.
I write a poem about beet stain on white teeth; it’s terrible.
Your cologne scent was “The Sea”: vetiver, salt, musk, roses at dusk.
Zoom out: a deserted city lit only by car lights like oversized fireflies.
You received a D+ on crust-eating with an emphatic note: Try Harder.
White credits on black screen, the violin sings melancholy, your stale popcorn breath.