i am told not to write love poems. but i don’t know what use i am without them. there’s a big fog outside today. the birds keep disappearing into it. i watch them one by one. but what use would watching be if i did not love the birds? my mom races me outside every other week. to see the moon, when it’s at half mast, or some tree’s silhouette. even when the fires torched up our air we still rushed outside, coughing and all, to look at the moon. surrounded by punch-red skies, i suppose we learned to love them. it’s so nice, watching harold and maude all huddled up. it’s so lovely, the moon. someday i’ll write my best poem about the ashes. my neighbor who picked up a cig just to breathe clean air. in the arch of hysteria, speakers pumping songs gold and green. they say to know god is to look up. but my head is face down, writing a love letter to smoke.