Lifedoes not consistofaccumulatingsmall comfortsbutofaccumulatingmany wounds smalland great heldwith patientcare slowly metabolized and given backto thewoundingandwounded worldasbroken balm. You can hear a conversation about this poem

My Loud I sit beige and bubble-wrapped when all my friends forskae me for jobs …

Yes, the seeds are small, the ground hard and rocky …

The room, replete with what is about to happen, is full as well with coughing …

We have no uncontaminated words for this

The women—I want to say women, but really they were girls …

This morning I released, without a doubt, the same bright trout I gathered in my net …

The room ticks, a cry from the bassinet, time’s mouth speaks again …

My sons are on a mission, wielding sticks and nixing iridescent bubbles …