https://newfound.org/shop/nico-amador-flower-wars-print-e-book/
One of the poems
Minneapolis
If I had been a bit bolder, I would have put my head in your lap,
there on that park bench, and recited something I’d written earlier,
when you were a passing thought with no language attached to it. That summer
the wind brought down over a thousand tress, remember? Their trunks
lay open like legs in the too-hot night and didn’t make a sound. The quiet
rested on your shoulders and settled into the folds of your shirt -
there was only the nest move to worry about. On Tuesday, you wore a suit;
on Sunday, we rode the bus. In between, I scrubbed the sink and retrieved
a mouse from behind the oven, stick my head in the freezer.
I told the ceiling fan I’d wait to call, and then I started listening to music again,
before it was just he news: a ghost town hospital prepared to close,
postmodern cowboys convened a desert rendezvous. What haven’t I told you yet?
Only the parts I haven’t said to myself. I’d like it if you asked me
because then I could say, it’s easy to be a beautiful thing in the moment,
harder over time. Down at the river was where you showed me the old mills,
where the new sits among the ruins, where few things have kept their names.
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