lingering at the rest stop a frog's eggs

cratered moon . . .
what I harbor
has barnacles

no more dandruff
on his blue suit
open casket

old enough to be a table for one
 

election gloom
around the table—
the wishbone

moon shadow
the arch
of a dumpster diver

Godzilla
my son left him here
with us

tackle box
some of the hooks
he left behind

hospital alcove
at the foot of a saint
a paper cup

making out the constellations overhead
 

wading out—
the more and more of me
no one can see

again I pull
what would have been
her weeds