i was your beast
of unburden
the arctic and its
crickets of ice
grew on me like fine
hairs of mold
i mistook a molt
for metamorphosis
but once we all knew
how to make change
now they round us down
to the nearest hole
and hand out wafers
of ukrainian jesus
my poems are ladders
that lead nowhere
i could be on a jet writing
contrails across the sky
instead of these two
scrawny lines