I believe in snapping apples
from the hard joints of August.
I believe in holding them high
until they become the blood
marble eyes of hawks over
fields. I believe in the earth.
In the way rain fingers through it
like full moons of acid dropped
into a glass. I believe in taking nothing
back. I place my chest on the hardwood
floor and start to believe it’s a small cut
of sun being cooled from behind
a distant galaxy. I feel the air
fold over me like a coffin lid. I believe
in Cambodia. In fishing through
ponds of rice paddies with silk
hands. The word monsoon beading
on my tongue until it forms a pool
where my teeth are the basements
of flooded buildings. Pull up the carpet,
pick out your ruined words. I peel
flies off the skin of dying fruit
and smear them on a napkin.
I flip it over and write: if we are only
clouds, picture me a wild animal.
Watch me foam over.

Philip Schaefer
This is gorgeous.
Here’s something I don’t want to leave for awhile. I want to push each line into the possible. And then do it again and again. I don’t wish I could write like this. This is enough. Glad you’re in the world, Phil.