Graham Foust

Life Story
New Poems From the USA

 

Plants push. The ground
bounces. The sun comes
up, a sweet nerve.

Scrapes of radio, small songs
of dying or of not,
just touch the beach.

I don’t know what I like.

What I’m doing is stalling.
What I’m doing is staring
at good red meat

like it’s a mirror.
Like it’s something
I might already only believe.