Poets, may I rise from the beautiful destruction of your work. May I live another life, another day, through your poems. Grant me the strength to be burned clean and fly like that fierce mythical bird or even to outlive ten phoenixes like one of the Nymphs—all because of your writing. May we rise through and because of each other. May that be our eternity.

I just clocked fifty-nine active zone minutes on Fitbit getting IKEA items out of their packaging.

A bobcat just walked by our house.

Now I know what my monsoon-season hair looks like. Not good.

I’m dressed like a flower so the bee who made his way into our home yesterday will land on me and I can walk him outside. I made nectar for him last night and placed it in a shallow dish. His name is Tucson but we call him Tuckie for short.

Don’t thank me for helping you grow if you grew at my expense.

There is no border in the heart.

I’ve got a lot going on here in Southern Arizona for a person who was intellectual surplus in Southern Utah.

I was desperate to exist in Southern Utah and am relieved that my existence is a given in Southern Arizona.

Tell me where you live without telling me where you live: I wake at 5 a.m. to be active while avoiding the heat, have a favorite saguaro that I photograph regularly, and nurture a love/hate relationship with javalinas.

I just received a box containing a box containing boxes.

Love: Why do I feel so heavy?

Me: Because you’re carrying me.

The longer we live, the longer we live in the past.

You won’t save the land. (You must try to save the land.) You won’t save the animals. (You must try to save the animals.) You won’t save humans. (You must try to save humans.) Who is speaking? (And to whom?) My trauma to me. (Me to my trauma.) Me to myself. (My trauma to my trauma.)

I was of the lands in Southern Oklahoma. I’ve been in all the other lands where I’ve lived, not of them. I could be of Southern Arizona someday — if I stay long enough, if I live long enough. I want to be of lands again. It’s been too long. It’s been decades.

My dog and I eat spinach together on the anniversary of my last dog’s death.