I am passing the poem to this city& its watermarks of loneliness.For every poem, there is a poemwith a coin in its mouth.It is that month again.Sometimes my footsteps frighten the raccoonswhen I walk by the dumpster. Sometimesthey stand for a moment, charredeyes gleaming, before rummaging resumes.I am passing the poem to aunties who prayfor hours, food getting cold, & uncles who chew obnoxiously.I am passing the poem to green gods. Maple. Honey locust.Sycamore, black walnut, hackberry. Zigzagtwigs that touch foregroundof sadness. My sadness.The rabbits here are built like 40-year-old toddlers.Sometimes all I want to do is sit & pet them.Something about wild roses along old footpaths, still air against dusky skin—waking to the TV’s blank face, to rain in the middle of the night this time of year.I am not passing the poem to the hole that is always my account balance, nor Hinge girlwho says her most irrational fear is people from third-world countries.There is a lake beyond that field where little girls playsoccer on Friday evenings, where bluegills bubbleup in innocence, eager mouths for what my hands hold.Some days I come face to face with deer, almost awareof what binds us in thin woods.I am passing the poem to my father. Sitting outside his own house.Loose white singlet. A glass of ogogoro in one hand.Listening to Osadebe. Watching the evening sky.Two weeks before the accident.Two weeks before the accident.Two.