“That’s why I quit politics,” a teen says into his cellphone, juuling with his free hand.

The problem that afternoon was that when the woman seven months pregnant, in the throes of fentanyl addiction, began giving birth on the sidewalk

burn me some herbs
put on some tea (osmanthus oolong, please) and light the stove to slowly
let it steep

we roll our bodies down the hillside
everything feels so green

there is nothing separating us but a few inches of cold metal, through which his questions stream like water through a sieve.

he never smiles, only glares at the camera
like he’s looking right into your soul,
and wanting you.