Four Poems

I bite my eyes shut between these songs.

They are the sounds of blackened insect husks

                                           folded over elk teeth in a
                                                       tin can,

they are gull wings fattening on cold air

                      flapping in a paper sack on the chlorine-
                               stained floor.

They curl in corners, spiked and black thatched,
stomp across the living room ceiling,
pull our hair one strand at a time from electric sockets
and paint our stems with sand in the kitchen sink.
People on couch
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