To Whom It May Concern Again it is coming of age, blown open blossom, turn key operators and survivors, coming up for air twice. Yet forty or fifty are burned alive, forty or fifty are buried, forty or fifty become lost scrambling up the hill to check. When the machines start to stop at zero, replacing the hums with great silence filled and fitted by one huge conversation between nature and her guests: promises and facts, big success stories, all of it gravity gravity gravity.

The Mummeries Not sure where the sound comes from although it is very early to hear such motors and moving. Might be out back, further away like a fighter jet at noon in the parking lot of the group home where disabled adults act like babies. Perhaps that is the answer, yet poems are just formulas.

Tallow Who cares about the Gods anymore in brown fires between us, latent fat quick to learn temperature. A birthing begins and ends in Julian, in the quiet there. Here is where the sadness began, here is the corpse of happiness or at least the memory, a sweet aftertaste of mix-matched wax and bones.