Meg Hurtado

BLOWING SMOKE AT THE MOON IN PORTLAND, OREGON

Summer is for not-sleeping, for making

evil ways work, for knowing your band

is way better. That long-form vim by whose

blood & glow the galaxies once got lit –

we can’t do that anymore. We choose

the swampland where money goes to die.

Amputated avenues designed for withholding

intelligence make us say, “Okay”, and the rich

deciduous pantry of heaven is just a place

we go to spend the day. We’re happy with what

can’t be again: thickets a-twitch with animals

and the ghosts of animals, rivers full.

We missed the eclipse, which happened.

The bouncer’s t-shirt says, LOOK AT YOURSELF.