From the boathouse                     we speak of no one. With my foot on the water

I feel the moon outside. Angelo

                                                          has given birth                   to a horde of dragonflies, they come

in the night—	they whisper 
                               that the climate is changing, to splay my hips because anything

      is changing.

                                  I write to warn my family:      Dearest Mother & Father

             The terrain     a womb, is splitting—there is little left and how will we eat.

                                  I am still addicted to drugs. But don’t worry—

                                  the air will dry up soon and all that will be left is this sandy road

             that provides no relief.

                                                                                                No.

                                                                                          No sound of crickets, or hyacinths—

                                                                                          No sound

but the sound of dragonflies

and no relief. I came to expect more         	                               but there is little more

than my foot on the water

                                                                                       and the curved bone of this dying moon.