after the train derailment, the sunsets lasted twice as long. my uncle defeated the purpose of his bunker by overdosing before the war could start. before chimneys, chimney swifts were just swifts. the key to reading this poem is to imagine yourself extinct. i drove past the same house everyday until it burned down. after my dealer got arrested, switchgrass grew around his car like the bones of a hundred lizard tails. when i bit the wafer, the wrong body flooded into me. clouds banked like clouds. i didn't understand how they could fit a river in the atmosphere. the medical bills came postscripted with inspirational stories about kids with cancer. every morning, crows by the bus stop pretended to be an omen.