“The leaves are moving — like tongues, like time, like tradition, / like things rise inside an oven, soft and curious. / The leaves are moving — they’re like smoke, / always waiting for the wind to push them,” from “Asvattha,” by Sumana Roy

“Beyond / this tedious Monday calm, an algorithm // without hunger / without teeth, something thrums / like a splinter of unease beneath the soles // of my feet,” from “Rhesus macaque,” by Nitoo Das

it’s the first time in weeks i’ve been / able to stay all day on my feet & this / makes me want to say yes & keep / saying it,” from “First Warm Sunday of the Year,” by Safia Elhillo