The arterial beauty of Florida is alive in all of its obesity.
                                                                                                    And the sequin-sellers are doing good business
east of Granada Boulevard.
____

The sad-eyed woman’s ultrasound image—all dirty blur of gray and ambiguous genitalia—sits
lovingly electric on your newsfeed.

And the neighbor with his disorder you invented is going out tonight.

____

The starlet will eat a sandwich and Kevin will push the joke
too far—the vomit, the bobby pins—

and that’s OK tonight.

And your mother, with her rough hands, her quiet advice, has walked
along the sidewalk knowing how cold a wooden house can feel,

wondering whose soft, strange lips she could kiss.