Depicts a simple, fleeting encounter on a “quiet park trail” between a young man “gaining on the Golden Gate Bridge / where so many beautiful boys fly” and a woman “trained / to give him anything he wants” which resounds with the complexities of our consumer-capitalist world.

Renders the portrait of a neurodivergent father and son as they proceed with difficulty through an immersive aquarium while “other families ooh and ahh—what luck.”

Suspends, “not quite nor ever / here,” in its electron cloud of traumatic dissociation as performed by dancer Ruth Douthwright.

Stages an anthem of resilience in homage to those who fashioned samizdat vinyls from x-ray films amid repression of the arts by the Soviet Union in the 1950s and ‘60s.

Takes a behaviourist lens to the lived experience of intimate partner violence, exploding the institution of marriage and “these things she is supposed to want” in the process.

Playfully grieves romantic loss by eliding the letter “u” in this dehydrated confessional, concluding “I know I was sed / but I miss that sing.”

Oscillates between the said and the unsaid in the relational dynamic between a father and a son, leaving out “the time he tied / my brother’s dog, Joey, to a post / and shot him with a .22 …”.

Is a love letter to Florence Wyle’s sculpture Torso (“Mother of the Race”), both to what is—“your breasts small and no-nonsense”—and to what the sculpture implies—“two perfect arms / though no arms exist.”

Revels in its disinterest “in stoves, those great civilizers” by celebrating a suburb of women compulsively overcome with pica: “Ever since I tore my mouth lock off, I’ve been binging / like a magpie, on every glint and texture”.

Responds to the performance of an imagined underwater pipe organ while exploring themes of capture and resistance: “There is a sound / that catches. It is a net I am / a fish it is a line I am / a fish it is a spear I am / a fish.”

Depicts the way in which white colonialism “warped” and instrumentalized Jesus Christ “from prophet into insatiable poltergeist” to achieve its imperial ends.

Proposes the human alternative of metaphor—“On a scale of anglerfish to northern lights, / how bright are the flashes in your head?”—to the numeralizing, categorical imperative of the healthcare [sic] industry.

Eulogizes a life lost to the fentanyl crisis in the city known as Vancouver, Canada: amid a meditation from the forest, it asks, “How many downpours / until we upend earth / for solutions?”