Just sugar cubes and a crop for you. Salt licks to smart the tongue.
Your jumps are numbered. It is better to be a bird without altitude.
I’ll leave a trail of crumbs as I descend into god knows where.
Standing there in our small shadows, we discuss the ways of the dead.
The Village wasn’t really a village. No walnut trees. Just cut flowers.
Two animals, doe-eyed, slick across the road into the femur of the night.
Logic is such an elegant weapon; and religion, such an easy target.
Once upon a time, a couple wandered in a glass forest, hand in hand.
Later in the pale of dawn your hair brushed across my forearm.
As a shadow I arouse you will you believe the truth of my mouth.
The fog’s sheen is a mirror: my mother sees the terrain of the future—
The fish’s eye is mangled, tugged inward; blood leaks from its gills.
Death is our common ancestor. It doesn’t care who we have dined with.
Forgive me, please, for continuing to believe that roses are beautiful.
He folds on himself like a sheet kicked off the foot of a bed.
Something basks and gathers in the dark parts of an open ear.
Better to be a bird without altitude. Or to get out of the game early.
I was once a rider of mastodons, a waitress showing skin.
Our crowns are made of dead hair and get swept out with the trash.
The men here don’t know where to place me, call me exotic grail.
For a moment I had the delicious feeling of fitting in without even trying.
Our culture cherishes a fantasy of a certain writerly existence.
If it were fiction, calling the place Newtown would be too much.
Someone’s walk is pretty much who they are, from the beginning.
There was an intimacy to the sound that thrilled me.
I was always being left behind in the mud, a bandage around my eyes.
Salt lick inquest skill-step stalks. All flit, vanish: footfall’s fault.