What begins rampant
ends random
crawls along the edge
of my great aunt’s
1946 dictionary
in florescent light.
My lover sleeps behind
a construction paper
covered door—black
to keep the light out he wants
only real light. We have no
vegetable garden
nothing but store-bought
food to eat. Tell that to the metallic-
armored stink bug
that’s found its way indoors
middle of the night
just before
snow falls. Tell
it to tornados December
January February
these cities
you wouldn’t believe.
Tell it to the rain falling twelve
highway lanes across
like tangled lines.
Nothing grows here
but confusion.
We have become too smart
for ourselves.