Poetry

five tiny toes press against my lower back the ones who lost their sock in the nightly tumble dreamers seeking warmth under an old fashioned quilt. Together we float away from shore from

When it’s on your fingers, thick as paste, think blood, think Christ, think Judas, think your own life liquid seeping from the gash on the top of your head. Apply it to

Mark died on Monday so he probably won’t read this because I don’t know if he still exists. Rachael showed me a picture of you but I’m six years old

When cars approach at ten over, ten under, I think: stay with the carrion at this edible consistency or do my flap-away-and-wait? The zoom is monotonous, all buzz and swoosh, a rhythm I

Our summers were spent in the New South, autumn in the biosphere, winter in a woodstove sand sullying the hologram, blessing via a twenty-nine cent stamp. Bleeding through my beloved stocking cap. At