Three Poems by Edward Johnson

TRESPASS To the North, a thickening, smog or haze, fog or smoke, nature made or someone to blame? My mom FaceTimes me. She spotted another rando perspiring in her tomatoes. On one level I’m nearly certain these creepers don’t exist. But who knows? They keep us on our toes. On screen we vibrate—one box in Oregon, one in Indiana. She tells me that the last time my lips were purple like this I had…