by Ryan Mahr-Hale
I am happy, it’s sick.
The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.
The swan shaped vase has no tiger lilies,
emptiness becomes it. Necessity is virtue.
I have made of myself a gentle monster.
Disingenuous cards, standing shaped
like geese in their martial V.
Books I will never read.
I can tell the truth.