Poems

The sprayed cockroach doesn’t know
it’s already dead.
                           It’ll scratch around 
behind the refrigerator 
                                    while I read my book
about Augustus, emperor of Rome.

The past,
               I was late to learn, 
doesn’t exist 
                   outside the imagination. 

Your final night, 
I held the water glass just so,
                                             put the straw to your lips.
We both knew it was the end.

For…