Welcome to our treasured island seized from the tribe of enemy combatants who nursed us through the winter of 1642.

This heap of shoes. This copper beech. This highway butter.

This featureless cottage about to be filled with “genuine antiques.”

This track into milkweed seen from the ground.

This monumental train that thought it could replace the barge before it got choked out by interstate trying to protect inalienable piracy.

Planes thrown down like lightning. Lightning thrown like a glove.

This is not a camera passing through the comb-like trees.

This theory with its problematic central arc will be for sale when the poem is over.

This is the end of the bike path.

The moving sidewalk is about to end with the future on it loaded with blankets looking for a place to lie down.