From space the river is loose thread. Frayed but clearly discernible.

A wall but not a wall.

At county, a jailer winds it around his neck. Surrenders to unconditional embrace. …

Orion

He doesn’t know his belt’s gone out of style,
or that he needs a license,
that hunting has a season now.

He is still in the endless forests of his past,

Faulkner County reeks of burning leaves;
other days, smelt from the refinery.
A whiff of manure when the breeze
turns just right. All seasons, this air
is heavy with rainwater: …

Tuesday feels like every day, so today is every Tuesday.
This goddamn day won’t goddamn change
my going back and forth between the sure and doubt,
the front door opening …

It must be their feet tangled past the hem of the blanket
(a big toe pressed to the top of a pale, carved foot)
that make me pause, scroll back …