Stalker
Say, “I’m holding you in the light.”
Hold my head under a river’s
brackishness so I might speak my sins.
Bury me at a crossroads.
Give me convenience or give me
God. I wake up outside
a church some mornings, but
No One’s there with a handful
of sewing needles and a jar
of sea monkeys. Just panopticonic
menace. Wetwork to be done.
My DNA in 29 states
and one foreign country.
Flowers trysting like mad
as the ant I’ve just crippled
drags its skewed thorax around.
The air infested with static,
white noise a brilliant threnody
that spirals and spirals the ribcage.
All the best buildings are churches. 
Story Problem
Stalker
To a Girl Named Siberia