How could I mistake the scent of anxious-approaching-angry skunk for that of cheap marijuana? A scent I called skunk weed, but Vida says that term is reserved for the good shit.

And rules are rules (like carpe diem or don’t write checks with your mouth that your ass can’t cash.)

The future differs from all predictions. Where to go in my hairshirt, bespoke & precious? What lamentation does winter-quitting-spring warrant? Of course,

wildlife lurks along our margins – a phenomenon with which

we’re markedly less unfamiliar than we were led to believe.

—

Rangi McNeil is a native of Laurinburg, North Carolina. He earned a BA in history from Rice University and his MFA from Columbia University School of the Arts. He is the author of Occasional Poems and The Missing.