“We are in peak iguana season,” a trapper says
with a shrug on the evening news as a way
to describe, though not really explain,
how a retiree’s pool attendant in Boca Raton
came to be shot in the calf by a pellet gun...
The old man
told us to spend more time in graveyards and I will
not I will spend more time with the armadillo
because he shows me there is such a thing as un-sad
When you leave this life, this fast and bright
existence in the Mojave, for the swamplands
of home, you can’t help but wonder if the Florida
alligators will eat you alive.
This language tastes like songs
of my sedo and before, days when land was soft beneath bare feet,
before bombshells bore into ground, before bullet skins showered
seeds in the dust.
