James Croal Jackson Mia Khalifa Life imitates art in the way   memory imitates life– your face reminds me of my last swollen   laughter held. Sometimes there is no comparison– oh, we'll rise   from geysers with sulfur still in our fabrics– loose, blue threads   hanging at the maw. We disassociate and wish   to converge into stars on a single strand of light–   I remember that copper smell of a new roll of pennies,   when fifty cents meant more than being half of something   not actually quantifiable at all. Public Urination I manifest prayer   into the unspoken covenant of suburbia, the gravel pockmarked by drought,   by time, trickling time. . . the desert calls its rare waters oasis– so,   purge the monstrous depths of your chosen gorge, knives outwardly aimed   at some balloon's held breath–