Mike Bagwell

I stared at the horizon / until it stared back. / It was not the horizon, // but my other self. / Congratulations! It signed / with its clouds. You are winning.

The first time I was afraid of the future / we had arrived at, I was swatting a text / like a mosquito. I do the same to snow, / which is actually a dream insect, / but too beautiful to look at.

God is too small. He is meant to be the last, / but the rest of the sky keeps planning more // which is a little sad. My friend filled / my hands with rocks. Not that kind of fill, / I mean taxidermy, only the good rocks, / the unsmooth ones that no one throws.