This Is Here
The sun unfurls magnetic storms. The sky is too blue. It is the end of winter. Petals decay on the front lawn. At night, two fingers form a V to cover Venus and Jupiter, while Mars sits alone, ruddy orange, on the other edge of the sky. But today there is warm. There is sunlight. There is medicine. There is worm. There is paper, rust, new. There is here.
Dear Suburbia 