The winter was mild by New England standards.
We stayed indoors, set the thermostat to 70, and
when the energy bill arrived—late, because, lest we
one day forget this epoch, the mail, like so much else
about our lives, was being sabotaged…

I breathe in the air that happens to make it through my screen
door and imagine what the particles contain—mist from Katmandu,
Dead Sea salt, dust of meteors, ground-up dinosaur teeth…

Mom has been cleaning the house I grew up in;
she’s mailed me a stack of old poems I wrote

by hand, back when I wrote by hand and carried pen and
paper at all times—just in case. The poems are no good…