Six American Sentences
Thin trees rise from the thick texture
of the saw palmettos’ sharp green leaves.
Now I’m writing American sentences just off Grayton Beach.
Tree-wood morphed into the shape of a lizard
on the soft pine needles.
My mother was born in fifty-one, next year she’d be seventy-two.
I sometimes wake without dreams, uncertain if I was asleep or not.
Drapes drawn, dark room, wind pinching the sky
into a sliver of the moon.