We know California will take it the hardest: losing
                    palm trees is never easy. No one will speak

of the redwoods. As a community, we’ll fold
                    & unfold our sweaters, pack night

bags with the last of our peaches. We’ll wait.
                    We’ll breathe but think of it only

when smoking. Eventually, the telephone poles
                    won’t hold, & we’ll call a desert a desert

again. No one will bless the faucets or pray
                    for hailstones to halve like human eyes,

so the baptism by thistle will go unnoticed. It will be
                    easier that way—to say no one was watching.

Nalgene bottles will go fast & flasks even faster.
                    By night, some will rediscover their hunger

for another hunt, so others will become prey, evading
                    brandings, shackles, open roads. We’ll trellis

mountains in groups, using fish bones for cairns, & when
                    dirt storms over us a second time, we’ll hope

for locusts. A woman will claim she’s seen trumpet vine
                    covered with golden husks in North Dakota.

We’ll wait. No one will bless her pocket. No one
                    will pray for a stranger’s empty shell.

To celebrate National Poetry Month and in appreciation of the many cancelled book launches and tours, we are happy to present an April Celebration: 30 Presses/30 Poets (#ArmchairBookFair). Please join us every day for new poetry from the presses that sustain us.