my grandfather came to me in a dream and held my hand with his calloused fingers to remind me I had not, in fact, crawled from a crack in the earth but belonged here
Poetry
Swidden
and some who don the thread of peasantry
and all presume to claim false fatherhood
Seventh Assessment Report
It’s a slow rot—
A decay with many geneses.
There are so many pinpricks
where life seeps
out
Autumn of the World
Suddenly the trees are tinged with flame.
The green is burning at the corners
like a blade of grass withering beneath a light-directing lens.