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spring lifts me above His shoulders.
holding me with thickened calluses 
built by the hand of a wealthy man.

He grabs a fistful of sunny daffodils
and dainty lilacs—and hands it to me, 
reaching over His head.

Chase the deer, the red-stained pavement, 

Chase the Ford F-150, white and black and silver, tires screech, 

and suddenly the concrete is scattered with glass stars and 

The ceasefire didn't last.

Now we're blockading their blockade.

Countries fighting like petty toddlers.

Trying to take control.

Ruining everyone else's lives as they do so.

America, Land of the Free, they say.

I am about seventy-five percent sure my father is having an existential crisis.

Synesthesia lens brekadrown of poem from years ago 

Circus is orange, a bright orange

That’s why it is best friends with chartreuse because they have fun together

I know I’ve made it because my hands smell like corn, and by my feet is a can that says Del Monte.