As if any of them would give a damn about him, some washed-up vet from the Korean War, one of the wars they don’t really teach about in school, because the jury’s still out on whether we won.

We watch as they don’t even glance back at the dock sinking under the weight of all the people who love them too. As the ferry pulls away, I break into shoulder-curling sobs.

“lingering mysteries I knew / I would never know: a boy who / drank rivers…”

“All I can think is that everywhere March must be different. The fat man, bearded, in thong sandals, tells me dryer #1 is broken, holds up to me his limp sweatpants—It didn’t dry a thing, he says.”

What would happen if all works in all languages were universally readable? New forms of thinking, new colors for the literary palette, and ultimately, the possibility of atypical influences. To put an old trope on its head, everything has been invented, but not every invention has been discovered.

As the only mammals that can fly, they are often 
imagined as something not-quite-mammal, 
a species dancing in the liminal space
between bird and rodent.