Fire Trump. Burn ICE.

Bambi stands poised on the page, elegant,
beautiful, but I am skeptical of deer. Deer can kill
with their antlers—from the Old French antoillier,
 
a horn in front of the eyes. Is this deer some rogue unicorn?

The sky’s more an ocean than a street
as we slowly harden the first while swelling the second,
abrasive sky with billions of tiny full pockets
while the ocean’s clothes are unravelling, sinking

like silly promises
of love and always
in the vast and hungry
empty
burning night.

and all the knives
and weapons have
to be hidden
to keep you safe.

Lately I’ve thought about a dooryard
Bereft of lilacs, out of season,
The jailbreak of circus animals,
​The slouch of some beast toward somewhere.

But when I was growing up, when I was hearing them tested every Tuesday morning at 10:30, the sirens were still called what they were when they were first installed during WWII all across a frightened America – air raid sirens.

Strewn across
Desirous dreams
Are concentrations of lead
Each form of escape
​Is more dire than the last

Each morning, he dresses the way a cowboy would dress if he were a peer of Roy Rogers or Gene Autrey in the Saturday Westerns of his childhood. He wears newish-looking cowboy boots, of course, and spurs that never fail to jingle, jangle, and jingle once more.

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I’d hate to be shipped off to a land run by a tiny group with lots of money
and guns, where attending a movie, or school, or a concert
is a fear-ridden, anxious, ordeal.

Then she stood, her eyes watery and luminous, one hand on her stomach
and I stood with her, unsteady, my muscles remembering, my memory remembering, 
​Once in awhile all one needs is a pause, then a thank you.

You taught me the pleasure
of petty crime
of sneaking away
with a glass full of wine